Oddments Reprise
by TrivialQueen
Summary: This is unrelated to Oddments, and yet it is its sequel. More prompts, more fun! More M rated material. Featuring Eustace/ Margaret, Philip/ Mary, Cromwell/ Elizabeth, TomKat, FalKat, Wolsey/ Joan, Knivert/ AoC. And many more. Updated July 18, 2012.
1. 0 General Notes

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.

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General Notes

This is unrelated to Oddments, and yet it is its sequel. More prompts, more fun! More M rated material. Featuring Eustace/ Margaret, Philip/ Mary, Boleyn/ Katherine, Cromwell/ Elizabeth, More/ Katherine, Wolsey/ Joan, and introducing Anthony/ Anne of Cleves!

On a writers high I have vainly decided to do a second prompt collection. Please review and critique, I am a writer in progress – as always.

This series will have:

The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen: Power to the wives!

Anthony Knivert/ Anne of Cleves: Because every Queen needs her knight

Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper: Our dear Imperial Ambassador saves his English rose in her darkest hour.

Philip of Bavaria/ Mary I: Because I watch the show.

Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon: So wrong. So right.

Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell: My answer to the question what if Cromwell's wife lived.

Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon: Well… duh

Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke: My first Tudors OTP

So, there ya go, feel free to PM me. I love feedback and most of my (not so) brilliant ideas have evolved from conversations with writers/ other Tudors fans.

Some Oddments related things can be found at www(dot)flikr(dot)com(slash)photos(slash)parrottgal(slash), this has some amateur photos from my English vacation as well as my interpretation of Elizabeth Cromwell and fashion. My livejournal: parrottgal(dot)livejournal(dot)com. This will have pictures as well as snips, snails and the tails that will probably never make it to .

Special thanks to all of my reviewers on Oddments, as well as extra special thanks to my fellow Cromwell fan Tilts at Windmills, my sounding board Boleyn Girl 13, my idea person Doctor Madwoman, and the woman who keeps me from sounding like an idiot in Spanish Elinor Potter.

I am now in college on top of the joy of attending a top PoliSci school, a top Party school, I'm on the Rowing team – Division I athletics, my time has suddenly become limited. Because of this I will not be able to update every day, my goal is a simple one. Fanfiction Fridays, I would like to think I can find enough time during the week to write a few prompts and get them up by the weekend. That being said, I know this is Sunday, my computer refused to allow me to update before today, next week should havea Friday update… I hope.


	2. 1 Action

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #1: Action

Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England climbed the stairs of Bell Tower, her horror growing with each step. This, this was the place they were keeping Thomas More? She knew all parts of the Tower were not like the chambers she had had at her coronation but she had never imagined… a rat scurried down the stairs, causing the Queen to lose nearly all her dignity as she clung to the arm of her escort, Ambassador Eustace Chapuys, a muffled shriek on her lips.

After she regained her composure she untangled herself from her friend, the small laugh between them sounding foreign and hollow against the walls.

They paused outside the door, Chapuys' large hand engulfing the handle.

"I warn you, My Lady, his situation is a difficult one to see, the King has kept him in increasing cruelty." The Queen nodded.

"I am prepared."

She was not prepared.

The Great Thomas More was in a wretched state, wrapped only in the tatters of his once fine clothes and a moth eaten blanket he had no heat, no candles, no bed, save for a pile of stray that appeared to be moving on its own. Katherine could not suppress the gasp.

"My Lady!" More exclaimed, rather shocked. "If I knew you were to come I would have washed." Katherine ignored his dry humour and flung her arms around his neck, the filth of his clothes and the scratch of his beard having no affect on her affection. He pulled away.

'Katherine, forgive me, but why have you come?" Katherine stepped back, beaming.

"You are to be released today, as is Bishop Fisher."

"How? I am not to be released until I sign the oath." The prisoner asked breathlessly, his handsome, stubbled face twisted in confusion.

"The oath," Chapuys spoke from the background, "is null and void."

"WHAT?" More exclaimed, his sharp question echoing in the cold, hard room. Taking his rough, prisoner's hand in her soft, regal one Katherine softly explained.

"A messenger came for Lady Elizabeth a fortnight ago, he informed her of your trial date, I knew they would execute you, no matter how eloquently you spoke," Thomas smirked a little at her words only to have it fade as she continued. "Thomas, I had to take action. The same day the messenger returned to the King with my final word on his "Great Matter". A week later, His Majesty, Mister Cromwell, and Mister Crammer came to me."

"Those Heretics!" he swore, "Katherine, you didn't. Tell me you didn't." She looked to the stone floor.

"That may be Thomas, but it was the only way. I agreed to the divorce, with the condition that Henry recuse himself as Head of the Church, the oath is thusly null and void and you, dear Thomas, are a free man."

"And what of Mary?! The whore will see her disinherited even if she is not denounced as a bastard." More was angry; Katherine had not seen him so angry before, even when discussing Luther he did not pace like a lion in a cage, nor raise his voice – not to her, not to anyone.

"More, you doubt Catalina's abilities; she is the Daughter of two of the greatest monarch in the world. She and Mary are both taken care of." Chapuys said evenly, trying to calm the agitated Englishman.

"But it's not right! You are the Queen Katherine, The Pope said so - everyone says so." Katherine sighed,

"But not the King, Thomas! He was prepared to kill you. I am the Queen, the True Queen and will be until I die, but for your sake I shall style myself Dowager Princess, Duchess of Richmond and Somerset. Mary will be the Duchess of Nottingham, and shall assume the place of the Bastard Henry FitzRoy in the succession, directly behind the 'sons' of Anne Boleyn. She is still recognized as his daughter, and she and I may remain at court. Please," Her voice softened as she looked up into his thunderstruck brown eyes, "I could not allow Henry to remove his fatherly affection from Mary and…and I could not lose you."

Thomas More could not but stare at the woman before him. What she had done, what she had given up. For him.

He fell to his knees.

"My Queen!" A smile spread across Katherine's face, she extended her hand to him.

"Stand up Thomas, let's go home."


	3. 2 Antebellum

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #2: Antebellum

Katherine snuggled slower into her firm, warm pillow. It smelled terrific – like man and musk, warmth and sandalwood. She just wanted to bury herself in it. The gentle pulse under her ear and the rhythmic rise and fall reminded her of the sea.

…Pulse? Rise? Fall? Katherine's eyes snapped open and were met with the sight of a sleeping falcon's chest. She tried to pull her away, her recoil was like that of one of the King's canons, but found that she could not move. She was trapped, caged by his arms. They tightened at her movement. Steel bands.

A murmur reached her regal ears. More asleep than not it shocked her none the less.

"Stay."

Stay. In his waking hours he wanted nothing but for her to go. And yet…

He sighed a little and she felt his nose nuzzle against her crown. There was peace. Katherine closed her eyes. Five more minutes. She'd move in five minutes. But for now she would heed his plea, and stay.


	4. Appetite

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

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Prompt #3: Appetite

Try as he might, Eustace cannot suppress the disgusted look on his face as I feast upon a sandwich of cream, pears, and tripe. The combination is admittedly disgusting, but I cannot help my appetite. I wanted all three – at the same time. I've been ravenously hungry of late, even waking up in the night to stuff myself on combinations such as this. I haven't been this hungry since I carried Katherine. Pomegranates were all I ate for three months. It was amazing I didn't weigh a hundred stone after that pregnancy. I'd never been so hungry in my life.

Hungry. Pregnancy. My hand falls from my moth and onto the table with a _Thunk_.

"Eustace, what day is this?"


	5. Apples

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne Boleyn

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Prompt #4: Apples

Apples. All she wanted was an apple, she would give her left arm for one. Red. Delicious. Crisp and sweet. The crunch under her teeth. The sticky sweetness on her fingers. Beautiful perfection. She'd risk everything for an apple, as her foremother Eve in the garden. She'd kill for an apple.

She had never been particular to the fruit. There was only one explanation and it made her smile as wide and white as an apple wedge.

She was pregnant. A seed grew inside of her and her heir would be as strong as his father, as strong as an apple tree. Pale flesh, red hair. The apple of the King's eye.


	6. 5 Bad Influence

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes

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Prompt #5: Bad Influence

At first he thought he was mistaken. An old house made lots of noises, none of them of consequence, especially at night when even the foundation was settling down. But then he heard the sound again, a faint tap on the pane followed by a muffled voice.

"_Thomas! Pst! Thomas!"_ The walls perhaps had ears but they certainly did not have mouths. He opened his window cautiously. A tiny pebble missed his head by a breath. He looked down as the thrower covered their mouth with a thin, pale hand, a golden lover's token around the heart finger. The figure was dressed in men's clothing, hand not over its mouth atop its head, holding the cap on as it craned its head up to look at the window with striking blue eyes. It was

"_Elizabeth!_ _What the_ hell?" He hissed. She was dressed in her brother's clothes, the garments by far too big for her, but considering the hour of the night the disguise was adequate.

"_Are you going to help me up or not?"_

"_You nearly hit me! What are you even doing here?" _They were to be married on the morrow – perhaps even that day; he had not consulted a clock. This was the night since they were reunited that he had not visited her, if it was indeed the day of their wedding it would be bad luck for them to see one another again before they became man and wife. Elizabeth clearly had no such qualms in regards to the superstition.

"_You didn't come and see me!"_ She replied _"So I came to see you."_

"_Why?"_

"I'm in love with a bad influence!"


	7. 6 Bleed

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #6: Bleed

Thomas looked at Elizabeth, watching her meekly exit her father's office, the stain of copper blood marring her full lower lip. His eyes narrowed. She tried to sneak by him but he caught her, holding her fast he pulled her behind a rack of fabric bolts. Hidden he held her close.

"You're bleeding." He whispered, hand taking hers. She flushed.

"My father did not like my lip," she said, casting her eyes down in shame. It was something he had never seen before, and something he never wanted to see again.

"So he split it?" He asked angrily. He knew firsthand the entitlement some men felt towards their family. His own father dealt with failures and mistakes with a rod. The flippant remark she made at their reunion was undoubtedly what had inspired the blow, and to many it seemed justified - she was not to speak to a man that way. But that question, "_Hidden under any girls' beds lately?"_ her smile, the glint in her eye… it did not shame him as it should. It instead drew him to her like he was a moth and she a flame. The idea of someone hurting Elizabeth – anyone hurting her, for any reason, crushing the spirit that had stolen his heart in mere seconds; he saw red.

She turned her face further from him. He lifted her chin with gentle fingers so that their eyes could meet, his thumb brushing across the injured rose petal of her mouth. She watched him, wide eyed, as he brought his lips near her own.

"I love your lips," he breathed.


	8. 7 Blend

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Philip of Bavaria/ Mary I (Posthumous)

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Prompt #7: Blend

Buried deep within and behind and under, hidden deeper than any skeleton, was a book. The volume was small, bound in tattered leather and gold, pages warped and yellowed, they creaked and cried as the curious discoverer turned to a random page: the cover so worn, the lettering unreadable. But atop one abused, cracked page, the identity of the book the late Queen was so desperate to hide became known.

'Luther's Small Catechism'.

On the inside cover, written in an ink now faded, read:

To My Pearl,

Please, read this with an open mind and an open heart. I love you; I love all of you, to change you I would not dream. May the joining of our hands signify also the blending of our hopes, our faiths, and our lives.

With love that grows daily,  
Philip.

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_Note: In Latin we discussed the style of sentence construction that holds the verb until the end of the sentence, apparently Germans use a similar construction, thusly I tried to compose my lines with the verbs towards the end, to my American ear they sound off, let me know if they are off in more than just my socialization._


	9. 8 Brobdingnagain

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

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Prompt #8: Brobdingnagian

"Eustace?" I call. "Eustace?"

He is not in the Library nor his office, our bedroom or the sitting room. And then I hear it - the telltale gurgle of a little girl at play. Rosalita, his – our granddaughter, along with her brother Charles, are staying with us while their mother, Eustace's Maria and her husband, take a short holiday. Eustace is so patient and good with children. I follow the soft voice, knowing if I find my girl, I find my husband.

I stop in Rosalita's door, unable to go further; my husband is on the floor, asleep. Stretched out on his back, hands folded over his chest, he snores softly as Rosalita crawls over his legs. Across his stomach is a pink blanket, the table cloth for the tea party she has set up. Around the slumbering ambassador, dolls and stuffed creatures sit and Rosie addresses each in her own little world. The sight is adorable, even if my beloved husband is sleeping on the job. If only there were a way to preserve this memory! What would the Emperor say if he saw his most prominent ambassador serve as a mere table for a little girl's imagination?

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_Note: Brobdignagian is a reference to the land of Brobdingnag, where the Giants lived in Gulliver's Travels._


	10. Bruise

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #9: Bruise

"Goddamnit woman! That hurts!"

"I am only trying to help. What were you thinking, jousting at your age! You could have been killed!" Katherine, Dowager Princess, Duchess of Wiltshire scolded her husband, delicate hand rubbing ointment across a particularly colorful bruise.

He had been thrown from his horse. Watching him fall had nearly killed her. She had worried when her Henry rode, but she never felt so ill as she did when the Falcon took flight. Henry was not Thomas.

But he was fine; blue eyes gliding over his bare body, she was reassured that aside from bruises only his ego was wounded. His ego. His ego in the throes of pain lashed out at all who neared him. It sent even the most seasoned maid scurrying until only Katherine remained.

"That hurts!" He growled, snatching her wrist and pulling her from him. In his ice eyes she saw the embarrassment, the pain… all that he felt he needed to hide. Stubborn man. Stupid, stubborn… handsome man.

"Where doesn't it hurt?" Katherine finally snapped. Her husband paused, still holding her in his strong grip. Finally, using her fingers to point, he pressed a spot along his left clavicle.

"Here" he snapped. Carefully, as to not cause him more pain, Katherine lowered her lips to the spot, softly kissing the heated flesh, dark hair spilling across his chest. Under her she felt him stiffen. Ridged at her willing touch.

"Here" he said again, more unsure, hoping for the same response. He moved her hand to a place on his forehead, near where his snow white hair met his sun-tanned skin. With the same tenderness, she replaced the touch of her fingers with that of her lips. Pulling away, he caught her eye, his confusion and his longing holding her.

"Here" he whispered hoarsely, her fingers brushing his lips.


	11. 10 Charity

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Anthony Knivert/ Anne of Cleves

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Prompt #10: Charity

His lips had not but tasted the sweetness of the mouth that had tormented him for days and nights when the wine lips were torn from his. Anne pulled from him, clutching herself as if he was about to strike her. She looked up at him, her large, German brown eyes swimming in tears.

"Anne?" Anthony asked softly, unsure of what he had done to bring about such a display - in pain to know that he caused a single tear to fall.

"I...I don't want your sympathy! I am not a _Nächstenliebe_.... a charity!" Knivert's heart broke at her words, accented heavily with German and emotion. She didn't understand. How wrongly England had treated her that, she should think that he did not find her worth his attention. He entertained many uncharitable thoughts towards the King, the man that robbed this beauty of her worth.

"Anne." He said softly, reaching out to take her in his arms, despite her recoil at his touch. Pulling her to his chest, he cupped her cheek with his large hand, rough and unworthy of her smooth, tear-stained cheek.

"I give to charity. I give the poor my money, I give them my time and prayers. But I never give them my heart," he whispered, before kissing her again.


	12. 11 Christmas

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

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Prompt #11: Christmas

The feast lasted well into the night, and the shouts of 'Wessel' ring through the air with promise of merriment continuing in private. Candles glitter in every window as fluffy flakes fly by the stain glass. Holly and ivy hang over every door, bringing holiday warmth to even the chilliest of halls. The chilliest of hearts. It is the first time since my father's death that a true smile has played upon my features without the taint of heartbreak.

Arm in arm I walk with Eustace back to our chambers. I look up at him, proud to show off what the miracle of the season has brought. He looks down at me, and his eyes soften. He is the best of men, more than I deserve. His kindness like the sea, constant and unfailing, and I am an island in it. Even when I feel adrift and isolated he is my companion. Hi has done so much for me. Much more than I merit. And yet I deny him his husbandly rights. My heart, what he wants, what he ought to have in spades, is as cold as snow.

He pauses in our door and looks at me fully, sweeping over my velvet dress, the greenery in my hair. His eyes, in moments such as these, melt my icy heart like the spring. In moments like this I yearn to give him something – anything, although fear still claws at me, holding me back. From the courtyard the clock strikes twelve. It is the Day of our Savior's Birth.

"Merry Christmas, mi amour." He whispers. It comes to me, the only gift that I can give. A gift better than the shirt under the tree. Above his head a sprig of mistletoe hands. I draw his eyes to it before rising on my toes and kissing his tender lips with a sigh.

"Merry Christmas Eustace."


	13. 12 Cloth

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Thomas Wolsey

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Prompt #12: Cloth

"_And what of this Cardinal, a man of the cloth with a mistress and two children; how do you like this fellow?"_

Lying in bed he made twenty odd years ago, Cardinal Wolsey felt human for just a moment. Joan across his chest; he felt whole. But the sun was up, and so too should he be. His body protested, lamenting the loss of Joan's soft warmth; he hissed at the assault of the cold floor to his bare feet and groaned as the yoke of shame and tension took its place across his shoulders. As he dressed he did not look towards the bed, focused instead on the cloth.

The Cloth.

There were days that the red of his robe burned him like a brand to a criminal. The cloth was a constant reminder that to many he was a betrayer. A Judas to his vows. Lust, Joan, Thomas and Dorothy – his thirty pieces of silver. Could love betray God? Wolsey did not know. His cerulean gaze flitted towards the bed, his Joan claiming it all as her own. In his heart of hearts he knew that he was right. But the cloth, the cloth still tore at him.


	14. 13 Courage

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Anthony Knivert/ Anne of Cleves

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Prompt #13: Courage

The Queen, soon to be ex – Queen regained her dignity and righted herself with a grace befitting her position. Anthony kept a hand firmly on her waist, however, in case she should be overcome again. His next words were almost as difficult as his first.

"You may return to your native land - the King will insure your safe journey. Or…" He paused. The Queen looked up at him with sad, brown eyes.

"Or?" She asked, voice nearly inaudible.

"Or you may remain and style yourself as sister to the King. He will set you up with your own establishment, and welcome you at court."

"May… may I have a moment, please? I would like to think." She asked, her speaking painstakingly slow, trying her best to speak well by English standards.

"Of course." Tony replied as kindly as he could. "I shall inform the King, but I must apologize: he does not want to wait more than a day for your answer." The Queen nodded.

"I understand. More than a day the King shall not wait. If you excuse me, I must soon decided. I have about much to think."

"I will return anon. Goodnight, Your Majesty." With a bow, he left her.

That night, Tony could not sleep. The image of a Queen falling to the ground falling into his arms… her venerability, stayed in his mind. She had come so far, left her home for an unknown land, a man she never met – only to be faced with a choice. Remain in the land that scorned or return home a failure.

The next morning Anthony returned, the Queen's answer was soft.

"I shall remain." Her eyes had a hardness he did know she possessed. For a moment he stood dumbfounded by her response; so shy, yet in her eyes there was tremendous courage.


	15. 14 Covet

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Philip of Bavaria

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Prompt #14: Covet

The wine tasted like vinegar, the song was like the screech of harpies, and the women only made the young Duke retreat further into himself. Sin, like the snake in Eden, had poisoned that which was once good. Coveting was a deadly sin; it had already killed the joy he once felt towards the marriage feast, and he knew it would soon consume and kill him as well. But he could not dredge a virtue up from within and save his soul. Every fiber of his being, from deep within to his fingertips, coveted.

He did not covet the bride. He did not covet the groom. He did not covet the party, or the display of wealth. He coveted the happiness. Why were the man and his wife allowed to be happy when he was not? He loved, as strongly as the groom; the bride did not possess affection more fervent or goodness more devout than his beloved. And yet they were happy, and he was not.

This should be his day, his wedding. This should be his happiness; this should be the start of a life he would share with his Pearl.

Yet it was not.


	16. 15 Dance

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #15: Dance

The great hall swirled with colors, music, and merriment. From beneath hooded eyes Thomas Cromwell watched his wife. She caught his eye with a flash of aquamarine; the curl of her full lips brought him into curt bow. She raised a brow into a delicate arch, she then laughed - gregariously, gaily, it bubbled from her freely. He knew her mirth was not in connection to the comment made by Lady Lawrence, although it was parallel in time. No, she was laughing at him, his haughty demeanor. She was the only one to know that this act upon the social stage was not just 'Cromwell being Cromwell' for she was the only one to know what being 'Cromwell' meant.

"Lady Cromwell," Thomas' ear was piqued by his wife's name on a young man's lips - Lord Brougham.

"I thank you, my lord, I would be delighted." Elizabeth replied with a smile. He had asked her to dance. Something he himself had not done. He had spent the entire ball working: conversing with the Privy Council, arranging appointments with ambassadors, and sending his beloved wife thinly - veiled looks.

"Do you mean to frighten me, Master Cromwell?" Elizabeth asked huskily, approaching him with a twinkle in her eye. He smirked. She was calling him out, the raven of the court. He was about to speak, say something and dazzle her with his wits, but the previous dance ended and the Good Lord Brougham was fast approaching to claim his dance.

"Mister Secretary," the young man said, awkward when faced with his partner's husband. "May I ask for your wife's hand in a dance?" Thomas leveled a cold, intense look at the young nobleman, before turning softly to his wife.

"Tis not from me that you need permission." He said, a hint of a wink played across his face.

"Of course, Lord Brougham, I gave you my word, no?" With that, Thomas Cromwell was left standing by himself.

Swooping like the raven they claimed him to be, Thomas made his way to the balcony off the hall, half hidden by heavy drapes, providing privacy and a perfect view of the dance.

The King had made him rich, but not better off. None but his Elizabeth could improve him; nothing the but simple, breathtaking beauty of her smile could move him. The grace she was bestowing on another. He bitterly wished to be the only recipient of such nonparallel beauty, but alas, he was forced to share. The fact that other, far more handsome men – younger and richer than he - were in the presence of his heart, his soul, his love, clawed at him. He held back an Elizabeth-esque snort. He was jealous; she would be most amused, but it was true. As she twirled about the room in a sea of color he lowered his eyes to the highly polished floor and felt himself fade into the grain. The yoke of loneliness sinking onto his shoulders.

He did not raise his gaze until a soft hand snapped him out of his self-pity. Looking up he found Elizabeth, one finger pressed to her full lips, her hand taking his and pulling him out onto the balcony. No - one saw them slip in to the shadows, nor did they see the woman slip into the secretary's arms.

"I love you." She whispered into his neck.

"And I you." He replied into her crown. Pulling back, he cupped her pale cheek.

"Dance with me." She whispered. "I know it's not proper, but will you?" He gave her a wolfish grin.

"I would never indulge in impropriety."

"Claims the man who on several occasions hid under my bed."

"Retorts the woman who snuck out in the night to visit me."

"Touché!" Elizabeth laughed as Thomas began to move with the music. For a short time, man and wife shared a moment in the moonlight.

"Lord Brougham seemed particularly interesting to you this eve." Thomas commented before the lawyer in him could stop his tongue from commenting without knowing every possible response. His inner tongue - lashing distracted him, and he did not notice the subtle hum of amusement coming from his wife.

"He is indeed interesting and very charming."

"Oh?" Cromwell asked, crossly.

"A dandy, to be sure, but a sweet young man. Why?" She could feel his muscles relax under her hands as the tension in his back faded into the starry night. And she knew. The knowing split her face in a wide, mischievous smile. He had been caught red - handed.

"Green! Husband – mine, you turned absolutely green!" she laughed her uninhibited laugh, the one that told him he was a fool, and soon he joined in the mirth.

"Want to know a secret?" she asked. They had stopped following the rhythm of the musicians, and instead moved to their own tune. He nodded, eyes watching her intently, lovingly.

"Tuum amo, O sulti virii." She whispered.

"Semper?" He replied. Elizabeth took his left hand in hers and kissed the band encircling his heart finger.

"Semper Fidelis."


	17. 16 Devotion

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. Nor am I a singer, the song _My Confession_ is performed by Josh Groban on his album _Closer._  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #16: Devotion

Lord Wiltshire stood half - hidden by shadows in the door of his wife's chambers. It was late evening; the sun had set, although its absence was fairly recent, requiring only a few candles to be lit. The few waxen pillars cast deep shadows recessed against shallow pools light. From his vantage point his icy eyes cut through the darkness and focused on his wife, on her knees before her small alter. The candlelight casting a halo around her coal curls.

_I have been blind, unwilling to see  
The true love you're giving.  
I have ignored every blessing.  
I'm on my knees confessing_

She turned, slightly in prayer, her hair falling like a curtain around her face, her full lips parting slightly as she murmured familiar Latin. She was breathtaking. Even if she was grasping that bloody Catholic book. His heart contracted in his chest. He loved her.

_  
That I feel myself surrender  
Each time I see your face.  
I am staggered by your beauty,  
Your unassuming grace.  
And I feel my heart is turning,  
Falling into place.  
I can't hide  
Now hear my confession_.

She was shy and she was stubborn; her movements were graceful, whether or not she meant them to be. Her little quirks, her little habits… the way she worried her lip when she thought, the way her finger twisted in a curl when she was thinking she was alone.

She was not the Queen he remembered. On her throne she was cold and Spanish, a threat to his daughter, his name, and the title that was within his reach. And yet at home – in his home and in his bed she was not the enemy. She was… warm. Gentle. She was shy. And each of these moments, these little facets in her façade pulled him further and further from his path to her destruction.

_I have been wrong about you.  
Thought I was strong without you.  
For so long nothing could move me.  
For so long nothing could change me._

He had been so wrong about her, and now, now this miscalculation could cost him his heart. If he let it. He wouldn't let it.

_Now I feel myself surrender  
Each time I see your face.  
I am captured by your beauty,  
Your unassuming grace.  
And I feel my heart is turning,  
Falling into place.  
I can't hide  
Now hear my confession._

She coughed, it was a short, crisp sounding expulsion of air, but it made the angel mortal for a moment. They were both not as young as they once were and one day, sooner rather than later, they would die. She would die, his angel in temporary hell would transcend to heaven, her rightful, final place. She endured so much, he put her through so much. And yet he realized… he needed her.

_You are the air that I breath.  
You're the ground beneath my feet.  
When did I stop believing?_

He did not realize he was moving until he was by her side, falling to his knees beside her, before an alter he could not worship before. She shot him a look from under dark lashes, but did not comment. Instead she finished her prayer with no reference to him. She was no affected in the way he was- the heat, the tingle… if she felt it she betrayed nothing, where as he felt as if he betrayed everything. She knew, she had to know, it was written in his eyes as it was written on his heart, try as he might to conceal the fact.

_Cause I feel myself surrender  
Each time I see your face.  
I am staggered by your beauty,  
Your unassuming grace.  
And I feel my heart  
Falling into place.  
I can't hide  
Now hear my confession.  
I can't hide  
Now hear my confession.  
Hear my confession_

"Husband," Katherine finally spoke, coldly, quietly, her curiosity over ridding her revere for the place. "What are you doing here?" What could he say? That he couldn't stay away? That she was his flame and to her he would fly and perish like a moth in summer?

"I am here for confession." He finally replied, simple and evasively.

"You?" Some of her spark faired, it lit her eyes and arched her brow. "I did not realize you had a moral sense that led one to know of their need for confession and absolution. Tell me, my good Lord, what do you have to confess?" She challenged him.

He turned away.

_I love you._


	18. 17 Diligence

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon (Implied)

* * *

Prompt #17: Diligence

"Thomas. Thomas!" More was stopped by the voice of his sovereign ringing down through the hall. Scurrying to stuff all his papers into his great folder, he turned. Henry jovially clapped his friend on the back; the pages jolted, a few slips floating down to the ground, weighted by tightly scrawled lines. Flushing scarlet at the ears, More snatched up his pages.

"A new manuscript, my friend? Diligently working away once again, I see." The King commented, his good mood causing him to playfully peak over the older man's shoulder. The lawyer crushed the pile to his chest, pages escaping from his file.

"Yes, yes it is - my pen has bee fruitful. I was just heading to edit my first draft."

"Edit? Then you are done! You should come and walk with me, tell me of the next _Utopia_." Henry was in an exceptionally good mood, but Thomas demurred.

"I will tell you about it once I am satisfied."

"A man devoted to his work," Henry observed. "Another time, Thomas, I hold you to that."

"I promise." And with that More turned and headed down the passage, a page trailing in his wake. The King caught it with regal grace, a shout of -

"Thomas you dropped…" the words died on his tongue as his eyes caught sight of a familiar name in the midst of a declaration of love.

_My one, my only, my Katherine, How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. There is no number large enough to end that phrase. I love you like a lyric loves a melody._


	19. 18 Don't

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #18: Don't

"Now, you listen here, Thomas Cromwell!"

Her voice shook as she took his unshaven face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her fearful, wounded, sorrowful pieces of soul. They glistened with tears and ripped his heart apart; he felt as if he were Prometheus on the rock, slowly being ripped apart. Over her thin, worried hands, he placed his own, rough as burlap against the silk of her skin. He felt them tremble.

"You can continue on this path and _die_, not only abandoning your wife, son, and your grandchildren, but also your cause. Your death could mean the death of our Reformation – your work would be for naught. Or you can stay _alive._ Tell the king you're sorry. Tell him you were wrong. Tell him what he wants to hear! Stay _alive_ and fight. As long as you live you can plan, you can spread the true faith. In death there is no option."

She paused, a small hiccup of emotion over coming her. He took her hands from his face and pressed them to his lips, a tear snaking through his stubble and sliding across the smooth ring on her finger. The ring he gave her so long ago, when their only worry was where they would live and what they would eat. The name of their first child and they way that they would raise him or her. He inhaled deeply, knowing it would be the last time he would smell something as simple and pure as his beloved's skin.

"Elizabeth," He whispered, "I have tried, but it is no use, the King's mind is made up. I am going to die." He felt her shudder, he felt her quake. She collapsed against him and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her upright. Shamed and angry that _that_ was the last thing he could tell her. He could offer her no comfort.

"Please, Thomas," she whimpered against his thin, unfed chest, "Don't leave me."


	20. 19 Duty

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Mary I

* * *

Prompt #19: Duty

"_No!" Her father snapped angrily. "No, I will not allow it. You are a princess, Mary! You have a duty to _me _and_ _this country! Your marriage must benefit it. You are to marry whom_ I_ choose. It. Is. Your. Duty."_

_Your duty._

_Your duty_

_Duty…_

Mary sat bolt upright in bed, her father's words ringing in her ears and his anger flashing before her eyes. A week ago the King banished a young Duke, with no explanation, save the angry words he raged at her when she asked. She hadn't slept since the argument.

Duty. Duty. Duty. Duty.

She had a duty to her country. A duty to her father. Duty.

And yet she had another duty. A duty to her heart.

A duty, above all, to her conscious.


	21. 20 Endurance

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Anthony Knivert/ Anne of Cleves

* * *

Prompt #20: Endurance

He hovered over her, taking his time, taking her in. She was intoxicating – the natural sent of sweat, desire and delicious uncertainty. She was breathtaking - the swell and valley of the body he loved – the woman he loved. Sex had always been sex, wham - bam, the culmination of overwhelming carnal passion. It had never been as it was now. Slow. Deliberate. Tender. He was making love for the first time in his life. He was in love for the first time in his life.

Slow. He was going to go slow. He was going to show her how much he loved her – how he yearned, how he burned for her. He was going to show her the love Henry so cruelly denied her. The King was a blind fool. Anthony was not. And he was going to show her.

He was going to love her. Slow and tender and thorough, though he burned. He wanted to pleasure her … if he could endure.


	22. 21 Ever After

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Philip of Bavaria/ Mary I

* * *

Prompt #: Ever After

"With this ring, I thee wed." A German Catholic bishop, a symbolic compromise. The groom took his bride's pale hand, a simple, artistic band to be placed on her heart finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed." the groom said hoarsely. "I wed my heart to yours, your soul to mine. Your joy is my own, as is your sorrow. I love you, in sickness, in health, richer, poorer. When we agree and when we do not. I need you like air and I will proclaim my love with every breath."

Philip kissed his bride as the small group applauded. Pulling away slightly, Mary wrapped her arms around his neck, her tear - stained face split by a true smile.

"And we will live happily ever after," she whispered.


	23. 22 Everything

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Thomas Wolsey, Thomas Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #22: Everything

The red flames of sparse candles dimly lit the hallway, etching the lines deeply into the young secretary's face, his eyes were hollow, the rings under them black as pitch. He was gaunt, haggard; and without rest.

"Cromwell." From behind the young clerk his boss called. The man turned, his Eminence Cardinal Wolsey stood, a book in his hands. "Cromwell, what is this book?"

Thomas sighed. "Luther's _Small Catechism_."

"Heresy Cromwell! This book is heresy. I know you have lost a child but the pain of hell is far greater than the pain on this earth." The look Cromwell gave his employer chilled Wolsey's blood. His face darkened, eyes glittering hard and cold, black.

"Have you ever lost a child Wolsey?" He asked darkly. The older father crossed himself.

"No, by the Grace of God, I have not." Cromwell took a step forward, his black mourning garb swishing menacingly.

"Then don't speak to me of pain." Another step. "And what of Mistress Larke, how is she, is she well? Are you watching her die?"

"Do not turn your back on God, Thomas, he loves you."

"I am not turning my back on God, I love him. I am turning on the Church that _failed_ me, failed my daughters."

"The Church" Wolsey protested, "is the way to God."

"Faith is the way to God." Standing toe to toe with the Cardinal Cromwell spoke.

"Thomas" he said softly. He was not speaking at lay to clergy, employee to employer or even friend to friend. He was speaking as one husband to another. True love cutting across all other things. "Thomas, Elizabeth is dying; my wife is fading before my eyes. I have already lost two children, my girls dead and buried, one still warm in her small grave. I cannot burry their mother. I need to save her… I will do anything to keep her by my side."

Their eyes met as tears crested against the secretary's lashes, drowning the Cardinal in the younger man's sorrow.

"She is everything to me."

* * *

_AN: I am fairly certain this is chronologically off but I can't find a lot of concrete dates that would help me create a more accurate timeline. _

_Also, I don't know what made Cromwell a Lutheran, but in my own twisted sense of chronology and back story when he speaks of being failed by the Church he is referring to paying Church Officials substantial sums of money to prey for and save his sick daughters. His girls died and he blames the church – in his eyes they took his money and did nothing, so when the idea is presented that he himself can plead with God he liked it, that and Luther pointed out everything wrong with the church that Thomas found as well – if that makes sense… um… I touched on it in '_The People you Meet in Heaven_'._


	24. 23 Ew

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Anne Boleyn  
_AN: My Mother thought of this pairing when I was trying to explain Tudors fanfiction to her, as she put it 'The hate/hate thing was just to pull the 'wool' over everyone's eyes'. Please feel free to groan. Marissa, dear, this is sure to disappoint, and I am sorry but as brilliant as this idea may have seemed, I just can't do it.

* * *

_

Prompt #23: Ew

"Someone is stalling."

_A flash of scarlet flicked a tapestry closed over a secret space for two. A feminine giggle was muffled by the secrative cloth._

"_What did His Holiness say?" the voice asked, a low rumble answered._

"_I have full power to dissolve the King's marriage, but I plan on setting up a committee. It will take time, especially if Fisher is involved."_

"_Good, good." The woman cooed. "My exile was hell - I missed you so."_

"_I missed you too… I could not sleep for want of you." A silence that was broken after several seconds by a soft, interment pop of two pairs of lips parting._

_The clock in the courtyard struck the hour and the pair parted with low curses._

"_I have to go and see _him_." The woman hissed with disgust. "It is so hard to be with him when I don't want to be anywhere but in your arms."_

"_Love, he is the only way we can be together. Your family hates me."_

"_But _I_love_ _you, Thomas."_

"_And I love you,_

_but that doesn't matter."_

"_But-" _

_Her protests were stopped by his lips._

"_Blast." He swore, "If you do not go now I will never let you go."_

"_That is not an incentive for me to leave." The woman purred._

"_Anne." The man said firmly. "The King, the meeting with the King, his interest in you - it is the only way." A heavy sigh, another kiss. A dark young woman with fine eyes pulled back the tapestry, adjusting her dress as she did so. A moment later an older man followed, his blessedly loose crimson robes concealing the condition she had left him in. Before turning to go their separate ways they glared at one another, though the antagonist emotions failed to reach their eyes._

Thomas Wolsey sat up with enough force to hurl a bolder across a field. He looked around frantically, relaxing only after the realization that he was not in the east gallery hit him. He was in his bed with - he looked over to his right with some trepidation, as if he expected to find a horse's head beside him… or worse, Mistress Anne Boleyn. But his fears dissolved at the reassuring sound of Joan's soft snoring reached his ears.

Him and Mistress Boleyn?

Him and Anne Boleyn?

He shuddered. Laying back down, he pulled his true love close to his side, her familiar curves, her delicious sent, her soft weight telling him it was just a dream. Only a dream. As he returned to dream land a faint sound on the wind gave him pause. It sounded oddly like-

"Ewwwwwwwwwww."


	25. 24 Faith

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #24: Faith

"Joan, love, are you certain you will not reconsider? There is a household already in place for you and the babe." Wolsey asked softly. He sat, legs stretched before him, leaning against the headboard. Joan leaned against him, their child, only hours old, nestled in her arms. She tore her doe eyes from the child, her baby, and glared at him.

"I told you, I am not hiding away like your scarlet woman." She hissed.

"Joan," he said taking a deep breath, trying to remain calm and quiet for his daughter was sleeping blissfully.

"It's not shame, Joan, damnit, I love you and I love our daughter, that's why I am begging you. Please. Move to Ipswich, I know you can be safe there." He was pleading. He loved her, Joan was her wife, and this child, new born, her auburn downy head nestled to her breast – she was a little angel in swaddling cloth. He would lay down his life for her, her they had yet to name.

The court, the court was no place for a person he loved. The court was harsh, ugly, and vengeful. It was a place that destroyed people as quickly as it built them up. His child, he would not expose his baby to that. Have her hated, ridiculed, the stigma of his and Joan's relationship, his own lower class birth. In Ipswich she could begin her life with nothing but love. He would protect her, to the ends o the earth, he would go if he could see the best for her. The best for her was Ipswich.

"Thomas, I am raising our daughter with her father, a child should be raised by their mother and father. I am not leaving you."

"You know I only want the best for our baby, that is why I am asking, please, Joan, I want to keep her safe, I want to ensure that she is kept far from harm in-"

"If you say Ipswich I will rip this leg hair out." Joan said sweetly, her narrow fingers closing around a clump of hair exposed by the linen shorts he was wearing, his robes abandoned after they tripped him up while trying to assist his woman in the birth. She looked seriously at him, her eyes able to see through him as if he were as transparent as glass. "You want to give her the best life possible, and I have faith that you can achieve that here just as if we were in Ipswich or Putney or anywhere else." She gave the leg that moments ago she threatened a gentle squeeze, he gazed at his daughter. She had faith in him, faith that he could make everything alright.

He prayed it wasn't misplaced.


	26. 25 Fetish

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #25: Fetish

"_Your neck, I love your neck."_

It was an object of sexual attraction, slim and pale and a place where a simple kiss could bring about a heady moan. A moan caused by him, a moan for him. The Princess Dowager, Duchess of Wiltshire may have a head of her own but with a nip, with a kiss along that alabaster column he could turn that head any way he wanted.

Which is what he did now, his blunt fingers sweeping aside coal curls to expose the pale heaven of his wife's lavender scented flesh, his lips parted over the smooth, warm skin and his teeth nipped with just enough pressure to send her long, slim fingers tunneling through his showy hair as her head lolled to one side allowing him all the access he could desire. And he desired it all. All was not nearly enough.

She moaned as his tongue followed his teeth, lapping, soothing the mark he had left, the mark that branded her as his and only his. His to love, his to lust after, his to possess. And his to protect. He pulled back slightly, eyelashes skimming over her jaw like kisses from a butterfly's wings, barely there and yet beautiful none the less.

Against his lips he felt her pulse; the soft beat against the sensitive skin. His lips hovered directly above the vein that carried life through her. And in that moment the pale column was more than just something to be dominated, more than a possession, and more than just what it did to his loins. His proximity… he could kill her easily, sink his teeth into the flesh as if the soft flesh was that of an apple, the crunch all the same her skin turning as red as the fruit's. It was an animalistic fact, one that she instinctively knew, felt it as strongly as he did. And yet she did not pull back, she did not defend herself, in fact she opened to him. It was the greatest display of trust she could give. She offered herself to him readily, knowing that he could kill her and yet having faith that he would never.

He lifted his eyes to the mirror of her vanity where she sat, he leaning over her, his chin now resting on her strong shoulder, ear pressed to her neck, the soft intimate _pump, pump, pump_ of blood ringing through his senses.

Her neck, he loved her neck.


	27. 26 Fidelity

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #26: Fidelity

A shapely, pale leg, trim for its age, wrapped itself securely around the narrow waist of her lover driving his thrust deeper within her, hitting the spot that brought shooting stars to both partners' eyes.

"Katherine! Katherine, Katherine, KATHERINE!" Over the blissful peak they fell together, sweaty, shuddering, shaking. Her name on his lips. Finally. Finally she was Katherine, not Bessie, not Anne, not the maid of the week but Katherine and Only Katherine. Finally she was fulfilled – satisfied and loved, both in bed and outside of it. Finally she was with someone who loved her. Finally she was with him. Thomas rolled off of her, his concern for her present even when coherent thought was not. Spooning against her husband Katherine sighed and silently thanked God for sending her a man in the December of her life that made her feel like May. She thanked God for a man that loved her. And only her.

For his part Thomas More was not yet capable of any thought - directed to God or anyone else. But he could feel. His heart was beating like a thousand Spanish Stallions. His arms, as spent as the rest of him, wrapped around his lover, his wife, his Queen; her dark hair blanketing over them both in lieu of furs. He felt contentment settle into his soul. After all this time, all the heartbreak and all the longing - she was his and he was hers. He smiled.


	28. 27 Flowers

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Thomas Wolsey  
_AN: This started out one way and then ran away from me; you might be able to tell.

* * *

_

Prompt #27: Flowers

The hat was old and faded, the color sun bleached away, he'd hat it for more years than he could count. It at one time had been black; shallow crowned and wide brimmed, the hat of his crest, the hat of the church. New to him as he was to the church it aged alongside him, the darkness of the color fading alone with his hair. Scars they endured; victories they shared and even now that it was past the point of polite society he wore it still, loyal as always to an old friend.

His hands were rough, blunt. Aged and covered in calluses – calluses from his low birth, calluses from his high office, they mixed together across his fingers and palms. These were the hands that slaughtered; these were the hands that signed. They more the sign of the cross and the ring of the woman he loved. They held power; they held and baptized his children, and his grandchildren. These were the hands that turned the fragrant dirt as he knelt like a servant and labored over his garden, his Sanctuary despite the sanctuary. He was a man of dichotomy. In the court his hands grasped for power, for respect, for anything that would pull him up from the Ipswich gutter in the eyes of the nobleman. And yet while he strove to rise above the rough neck status of his birth he took simple pleasure in the work of one whom the nobles despised. His hand would forever be those of the working man's.

Organic happiness seeped into his pores as he helped his garden grow. Resting on his knees he felt proud as before his eyes and under his hands plants – life – flourished. Each Spring it was like becoming a parent once again. The anticipation, the excitement; watching a sprout become a stalk – a boy become a man. Nursing the plant until it was in radiant bloom like a daughter on her wedding day. Each success he praised, each loss he mourned, each day he protected.

Inhaling deeply with a smile he paid the attention that was due to one of God's creations.


	29. 28 Glow

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. I am also not a singer, _Fell in Love with a Boy_, is performed by Joss Stone on her album _The Soul Sessons._  
Pairing: Anthony Knivert/ Anne of Cleves

* * *

Prompt #28: Glow

"He is dead." Lady Sarah Bath informed her mistress, her tone and expression displaying none of the emotions she felt.

"Wer?" The King's Beloved Sister, Anne of Cleves asked, hand going to her heart; was it the King, her brother William… or worse? Possibilities crowded her mind.

"Francis, My Lady, Francis of Lorraine." Sarah watched the light that had been extinguished with worry rekindle; this news was of more than just death. For as long as Francis lived the King of England considered Anne his bride, the pre-contract was the grounds he used to divorce her, it was how he dismissed every man that smiled at her when she attended court. In his mind Anne was married, even though she was not, and now, with Francis' passing she was free, completely and utterly, with no argument.

"My Lady," another maid made an entrance, "Lord Knivert is here for your walk."

_Fell in love with a boy  
I fell in love once and almost completely  
He's in love with the world  
And sometimes these feelings can be so misleading_

"My Lady," In near silence Anthony Knivert and Anne of Cleves had walked, for perhaps an hour, comfort, but not words flowing between them. In the beginning these walks were to help the new Lady adjust to life at court, to teach her everything the King had neglected while she was his bride. That was how the walks started, but as time went on it became less of a lesson. Tony enjoyed the company of this shy German non – beauty. To the court she could be considered a Flanders Mare, but to him, on these walks, when her shy nature was stripped away and her true smile could be seen – parting her lips, lighting her eyes, she fairly glowed with inner beauty.

"My Lady, you seem preoccupied, pray what is on your mind?" He paused, next to the small river that ran beside her estate; he hoped that in their sylvan surroundings she would open up to him. The King would not believe him but she could actually be quite witty, shyness made her a wonderful and sometimes wicked observer. She looked up at him, wetting her full lips, the action giving her a moment to think.

"I heff received some news," She said slowly, her accent not nearly as thick as it was when they began taking these walks months ago. "Francis of Lorraine, ze man I was in precontract vith, according to ze King, has died." She paused, and Tony allowed the full weight of her words to sink into him. When Henry divorced Anne he claimed it was because she was promised to another. As far as he was concerned, she was married, and after their divorce he expected her to behave as such – all the men should regard her as off limits. But now the limitations were lifted.

"I am sorry for your loss." He said softly although he wasn't.

"Do not be," she replied softly, "I never met Francis, our fathers decided zat we would not marry." The chilly October wind picked up an errant curl from her bun, it danced across her cheek. She reached to brush it away, as did he. His rough fingers gliding across her cheek, pushing the lock of dark blonde behind her delicate ear, his hand then coming to cup her cheek, her hand raised to manage her hair came to rest on his wrist, holding his hand closer to her, their eyes never parting.

_He turns and says, "Are you alright?"  
Oh, I must be fine cause my heart's still beating  
Come and kiss me by the riverside,  
Sarah says it's cool, she don't consider it cheating_

He was going to kiss her, he knew it, he knew it before he touched her and realized that he would never let go. She knew it; he could see it in her eyes, her wide, brown, beautiful eyes. There was no reason to hold back any more, she was divorced from Henry, her 'husband' was dead. He was going to kiss her and he was going to love her. He tilted her face back slightly and lowered his lips to her.

* * *

_I apologize for the lack of an obvious 'glow' reference but this piece just had to be written and written NOW so I took whatever idea that was remotely close. _


	30. 29 Gluttony

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #29: Gluttony

"Eustace," I say softly over breakfast the next morning, I don't know how to tell him but I've got to tell him something.

"Yes, mi amour?" he asks giving me his full attention with that look in his dark eyes that tells me my every word is important to him.

"I think I know why I have been so hungry of late." He begins to interrupt me, probably to say he did not notice and he does not care, anything to make me happy. "I know you would never deny me but I was thinking last night over my snack," he turns a little green; pears, cream, and tripe is not his idea of a meal. "It might mean something. Just as I do not think it was the flu I had last month."

"What is it then? What is wrong?" he sounds so fearful, like Henry did when he experienced his first storm, funny and heartbreaking to see a man as big and important as my husband as fearful as a child. I take a deep breath, my request will alarm him.

"I am not for sure, I would like to send for a midwife, I-"

"A Midwife?" He rises in shock and rounds the table to take me in his arms as if I am dying. "Margaret, what is wrong, mi amour, please tell me." His eyes beseech.

"I am not sure, but I think I am with child." I have never seen Joy overtake Sorrow so quickly, his eyes grow very large and as timid as a kitten his large hand presses over my flat stomach, the stomach that will not remain so taught. The place where our child dwells.

"In truth?" he whispers. I place my hand atop his,

"In truth." I reply.

* * *

_I live! Many apologies for both the stinginess and tardiness of this up date, I just finished my midterms and a bout of the flu I've been completely whipped and uninspired, and also very busy, next week is my first regatta so practices for rowing have been extra early to maximize boat time – not fun. But here I am, with not only an update but also some edited material, deepest gratitude to miruvor who took the time to make these prompts coherent and presentable._


	31. 30 Habit

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #30: Habit

The room was dark and quiet and still and he endeavored to keep it that way as he approached his bed – their bed, after a long night of council meetings. He carried no candle, it was an unnecessary disturbance to the peaceful sleeping chamber, and unless she had done something drastic whilst he was out, and perhaps if this was still early in their marriage his wife might have, Lord Boleyn felt confident that he knew every step of his bedroom. His icy eyes adjusted quickly to the shadows of his room as he crossed the floor shedding articles of clothing as he went. Coming to a stop beside the bed Lord Wiltshire wore nothing more than a pair of linen shorts and a slight scowl.

His wife, the Princess Dowager of Wales, Katherine _Boleyn_, lay on her side, curled tightly, as far from his side of the bed as possible and still remain on the mattress. He frowned at this. It was true that during their waking hours he and the Duchess did nothing but argue, their fighting was often a potent form of foreplay, for at night they came together dramatic and violent. It was after they had their fill of one another, once the chamber finished ringing with the sounds of their praises for one another and the joys of the flesh; it was after all that that… he held her. In that moment, before they fell asleep, he pretended that she was in his arms as his wife. That she loved him, that she was more than just his _lover._ It was the happiest moment that he experienced all day.

He knew she enjoyed the moment too, though she would as soon admit it as he would. But there were times when he knew; like when she remained by his side even when he did not consciously hold her there. When she curled to him without first writhing under him. But she would try to deny it, this display, this avoidance of him was her denying the moments they shared. And it would not do. Crawling into their large four-poster bed Boleyn reached for his wife and with a firm hand pulled her across the sheets to his side.

"What the devil are you doing, Boleyn?!" Katherine exclaimed, annoyed. Thomas paid her no mind and gruffly positioned her dark head under his chin, his arms wrapped soundly around her in the position he had become accustom to.

"Getting ready for bed."


	32. 31 Horsemanship

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Anthony Knivert/ Anne of Cleves

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Prompt #31: Horsemanship

"Sir Anthony Knivert now entering the list." The crier proclaimed, the King applauded, not as enthusiastically as the crowd. He was jealous. Anthony was no younger than he and could still participate in jousts and knightly feats of horsemanship. Henry had one too many falls from a horse and a leg that took every opportunity to erupt violently in painful, vile deformity. Knivert rode before the box and bowed low in the saddle.

"Your Majesty."

"Good Luck Tony." Henry wished tightly. Tony nodded before moving down the box and stopping… in front of Anne of Cleves.

"My Lady." He said, "Would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your favors?" She nodded and Knivert lowered his lance so that she could tie the yellow ribbon around the tip in a not so vague sexual gesture.

The estate Henry had given Anne was near Knivert's, he had been please that a friend could keep an eye on his dear 'sister'. And he had been please to hear that he was returning to court after such a long absence. But his return and escort of Anne was looking less like a gallant act of chivalry and more like… He was interested in his wife. Ex wife. Sister. Whatever. Anne of Cleves was still Henry's and Tony had no right to wear her favors. Tony was his friend. And she was his.


	33. 32 Humanity

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #32: Humanity

Cromwell watched as the narrow lines of black letters blurred together across the page, an illegible trail following behind his tired, cramped, legal hand. Page after page, statement after statement, charge after charge he carried on, steeling himself away from the reality of what he was doing. What the king was asking. The death of an innocent woman was on his hands. On his hands like the ink of her charges. If he thought, if he used his empathetic brain, if he should have a moment of humanity… of compassion, the work would not get done. And that was not an option. The King was to be obeyed, obeyed for it was his divine right. Obeyed in all things. He felt steel take his heart, a marmoreal mask slip over his features. In moments like these he was no longer Thomas, he was Cromwell. He hated it.

The candle burned low as did the fire, the sun was far below the horizon and still he worked on, crossing every t, dotting every I, sewing up each loose end as if he was sewing up her very burial shroud.

In the darkness two arms snaked around his neck from behind his chair, brought to him on bare feet that padded silently over cold stone. Two petal soft lips pressed to his cheek and warm break tickled the curls around his ear as she softly spoke.

"Are you ever going to come to bed, Love?" Love. Cromwell pulled his wife into his lap; she curled to him, blonde head resting against his shoulder. He held her tight, held her close. For a moment, holding her, he felt human again. Her touch brought life to a dying soul, though he knew his renewal was temporary at best. With one touch she made him human, and in his moment of humanity he cried. He buried his face in her hair and let sobs rack his body. She held him close like the arms of an angel, she did not forbid him to cry, nor punish him for his lack of masculine control. She expected nothing short of complete honesty and because of that this was just the last of many tears they had shared. The last for he knew that if he continued on this path he would die. First emotionally, then physically. He mourned the loss of his humanity.

* * *

_AN: Well, hell's bells, lookie here, I updated... granted it's a week behind, but still I try. Just a warning this next round (the Is) will probably be late as well, Coach is doing a full court press on us to get ready for this regatta Sunday (yay mixing sports references), I'll try to find time to produce something but don't hold your breath._


	34. 33 Ice

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Henry Tudor/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #33: Ice

Small puffs of white breath rose into the clear, cold blue sky, sun shining down on the winter wonderland that was Eltham's grand gardens. The serenity of a winter's day was broken by the squeals of delight as a small dark haired child, dressed warmly in furs bounded through the fresh fallen flakes. The daughter was being chased by her father, a tall handsome man making monstrous noises and threatening to toss the girl into a drift should she be caught.

"Mama! Mama!" The child cried as she slid across the ice of the path, wetted by the high sun, making it particularly slick. "Save me, Save me!" She clutched her mother's rich amethyst skirts and tried to hide behind the mass of fabric.

Queen Katherine watched her daughter's small feet slipping around under her and turned to her husband, the King, currently egging on his Princess, both engaging in unsafe behavior. Mother picked up child.

"'Enry, please, be careful, it is too slick to run around like you do, I do not want you or Mary to be hurt."

"Katherine," The King replied, his tone as icy as the ground beneath his large, leather covered feet. "I was spending time with my daughter. I feel that everything is fine, do not over react. It's the first snow fall; can she not enjoy the little things in life?" The Queen sighed.

"That is not what I mean, 'Enry, it is just that I worry."

"What do I have to do to prove to you all is well? Shall I run, shall I jump, Katherine other than a nip in the air there is nothing to worry about." She opened her mouth but was cut off, "I will show you, watch your King prove that the weather is fine!" He turned on his heel and bolted off down the path, feet crunching rhythmically over the snow. All went well in his demonstration until he tried to turn and point this out to her. The pivot did not stick and his feet flew out from beneath him over the slick ground, he flailed, trying to right himself but only succeeded in falling flat on his royal ass.

Katherine gasped. Mary laughed.

"Silly Papa, silly, silly Papa." Mary giggled at the stunt her father must have done on purpose as Katherine rushed to her beloved's side, knowing otherwise.

"Mi Amor, are you alright?" The King lay on his back, she knew that if is daughter had not been present he would be swearing a streak as blue as the Danube. His pride was wounded but other than that he assured her that he was,

"Perfectly fine." Katherine put Mary down and offered her hand to him, a smile playing across her lips. Not only had the King of England fallen flat on his royal behind, he had proven his wife right in the process. It was so rare that that happened that Katherine could barely maintain a diplomatic disposition, 'I told you so' would only rub salt in the wound.

"You understand why I worry?" she asked as he took his hand. The next thing she knew the Queen was on her back in the snow beside her husband. The King sat up and looked down at her, having pulled her into the drift with him, a smug, satisfied smile on his small, full mouth. She might have been right but he still won the day.

"Not at all." He said cheekily.


	35. 34 Idol

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #34: Idol

He was not cold, though he shivered ever so slightly. Parts of him were downright hot – his back to the fire, the side of his body pressed to the fur, his cheeks as her gaze raked over him again, a smile of appreciation lighting her features before she returned focus to the paper before her. Pencil in hand she made another series of lines.

Katherine had always loved to draw as a child, this hobby had not been _discouraged_ but it was always understood that true art was to be left to true artists – the Holbeins, the Da Vincis. And yet she was still putting pencil to page to immortalize this moment. The beauty of the man bare before her. Long walks had given his skin a healthy glow, it was peppered with dark hair, thick on his head then gradually getting thinner going down his chest until it trailed off to a V. He maintained the build of his youth though he'd given up the activities long ago. His shoulders were broad, strong from carrying books and children. His chest and stomach did not ripple with muscles the Henry's had, but strong lines came and defined places. Nestled between strong thighs from long walks were fertile, handsome loins. But the most handsome feature of his body, the part she wished to capture and keep forever was the look in his eyes as he looked at her. The look of love.

His eyes caressed her, his compliance to her strange, intimate request only brought about with her agreeing to be nude for as long as he was nude. He was the god of her idolatry, and yet when he asked this of her she faltered in her worship. Henry did not like her body; he had not enjoyed her for many years. When the blush of youth faded from her rose, when failed pregnancies took the tightness of her body it also took the man's affection. But not every man's affection, Thomas appreciated every curve, he seemed to love every ounce of her, and never once did she even think that he desired a change in anything about her.


	36. 35 Impostor

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #35: Impostor

"Thomas! Thomas, Thomas." Katherine screamed as her most intimate muscles clenched around him. Thomas. There was only one man whom she called that name. Thomas Wolsey was his Excellency or your Eminence. Thomas Cromwell was Mister Cromwell. He… he was husband, said with a sneer and sarcasm. Or he was her Lord. Boleyn was often snapped at him. To her only the good Mister More was Thomas. She'd sigh his name often enough as they held private conversations. Ones that persisted despite his forbidding her from seeing the former Chancellor. She loved him, she had to, Boleyn knew this as much as he did not like it. And yet she had every reason to, More did not set out to pull her aside, bring her down, More treated her as a Queen. He was not bent on making her life a living hell. Bolen, even when he did not actively try to make her unhappy still managed to. Even when he tried to make her happy he made her sad. It was perfectly logical for the Spanish beauty to love the Englishman that treated her well. He knew this, he understood this. He hated this.

She was his wife, goddamnit; she should call his name when they experienced coitus. She should love _him._ It was a little voice in his head. An even smaller one recognizing that the sentiment rang in his heart as well. He did not finish, he did not cum. He completely shut off. Katherine did however, soft, strong muscles clenching around his depressed member. He rolled off of her walls as thick as the Tower erecting around him. She curled to him, curves pressing to him in the way he used to love – warm and soft. He was nothing but cold and hard. That one name ruined the antebellum of their bed.

"Husband?" Katherine asked softly, she now noticed his change. The absence of his arms, the feeling inside her of his release. "Husband, what is the matter? Did I not satisfy you?" If she had not ripped out his heart it would have broken. Her concern for satisfying her husband, not her own satisfaction.

_She was probably still wishing to satisfy More – not you_. A voice said harshly in his head.

"You do not have to pretend, Katherine, I am not your precious More." Katherine looked sharply at him.

"More? What of him, I do not understand." Heartless woman, forcing him to outline her love for another.

"You called his name! You cried _his_ name while_ I_ made love to you." He was angry and he was hurt.

"I asked you for more, to give me more, I did not ask for Lord More." She denied it! Thomas sprang from their bed.

"You called me Thomas!" she looked at him. She blinked, and then her eyes hardened, her nostrils flared, cheeks and breasts flushing an indignant pink.

"Unless there is an _impostor_ in my bed, I believe your name is Thomas as well. At least when I took those heretical vows I married Thomas Boleyn. Are you sir not Thomas?" He paced a little, tunneling his fingers through his snowy hair.

"You never call me that, I am never Thomas to you. More is the only man who you call Thomas."

Katherine pondered; he could see her thoughts behind oceanic eyes. He was on edge, her thoughts putting every muscle in his body into a knot. The anticipation was like that before a joust, it had his heart rate up.

"You were the Thomas I was calling for." She finally said. "I called for you and you alone. I called you Thomas because for a moment I let myself believe you love me. That you cared. That you were _human._ I was mistaken." Her words were not angry but even, sad and soft.

He was her Thomas. He was Thomas when she pretended they were in love, when she subscribed to the same glorious fiction for a moment. All of the tension and anger and hurt evaporated. He crawled back onto their bed and embraced her fiercely.

"Catalina, Oh, Catalina," he murmured into her hair.


	37. 36 Janiform

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. Nor am I a poet, this free verse is horrible at best, but I wrote it in a coffee shop while listening to new age jazz – sometimes you've just got to be pretentious.  
Pairing: None - Thomas Wolsey

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Prompt #36: Janiform

Squeezing, wrenching, gasping covetous man of God.

Eyes of ice, eyes of flint, look of love

God in another's eyes

God is love, can love betray him?

Callused hands, soft touch

Soothing arms, warm hugs, healing children's wounds

Stopping tears, slaying monsters under beds

Spies, politics, enemies, treason – to the Tower with you!

Politics, power

Growing Flowers

Architecture, books, not at all how he looks

Father, Son, Holy Ghost

Father, Son, Daughter, Wife

Monogamous adulterer

Non-canonical husband

Wife or whore?

Loving husband, uxorious family man

Married to work

Married to the Church

Sheppard of souls, Archbishop, Legit

Archenemy, intrigue, daggers drawn backs bare

Loyal friend to the end

Friend of France, Servant of England

Selfish greedy, provider, giving

Better life for his kids

Butcher's son, not a drop of noble blood

Alter Rex

Anne Boleyn, Katherine

Pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes – all fall down

Naked to mine enemies

In grey hairs given up

Serve God

Serve King

Serve the Heart

Serve the Purse

One Servant, Many Masters

One Man, Many Faces

Janiform.


	38. 37 Jingle

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: King Francis I of France/ Queen Claude

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Prompt #37: Jingle

"I look ridiculous." Claude fumed from behind her golden changing curtain, the sound of jingling following.

"Non, cheri, let me see." Francis replied laying back, hands behind his head, waiting.

"Must I?"

"Oui! I want to see!" Claude sighed, pulling back the curtain. She was still a beautiful woman, tight, bronze – Gold coins like scales barely covering full breasts, coins tied around her hips, laid over an ethereal skirt of deep blue. Her raven curls tumbled over her shoulders. Her hips swayed, the coins jingled. Francis' eyes dropped out of his head. There would be no mistresses visited that night.


	39. 38 Kick

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #38: Kick

It was truly amazing how quickly a situation could change. The shift from bad to worse. From funny to sad, angry to scared to uncomfortable in love.

They had been fighting, they were always fighting, why would the presence of a six month old being not even born yet change that. If anything the babe and its mother's stomach made everything worse. The fights were fiercer because of hormones, because of guilt, because of anger, because of love.

She was guilt ridden because of the child - the proof that she allowed this man, the devil, to touch her in that way. She was the one true Queen of England, bound in holy matrimony to the King. This babe was a product of unfaithfulness. This babe was the product of a concubine stealing her husband and a great heresy. These feelings didn't ease her guilt, didn't stop her fights. When she felt less than pure love towards her child unborn it was because of its father, the guilt. If the world was as it should be this would be the most blessed child in all of Christendom. But Alas.

The father for his part, did not share the guilt, he had his own dark feelings churning in his soul. Where the slight protrusion beneath her gown brought a sadness to the mother it brought nothing but anger to him. The audacity of it – it, not a child, for no child of his would dare exist within his 'wife'. His child would not threatened a lifetime of work.

He had married the Princess Dowager, not out of love, but out of planning. The King needed an heir, one she could not provide, Anne, his daughter, a superior Queen, needed her King. _She_ had not been willing to see logic… until he made her see logic. Never one to betray her husband there was only one solution, he had married her. Making way for Anne to give the King his greatest desire – a son. It would also give him his greatest desire, one of his line on the throne. Everything had been so perfect; everything had gone according to plan. He even managed to bed Katherine (again and again) something he had desired but not hoped for. Anne was pregnant.

That was when the first of many happening occurred. Anne had a daughter. Anne had a miscarriage. Katherine got pregnant. The infernal Infanta was carrying his child! He had proven the woman capable of doing something his daughter could not do.

It was her fault. She wanted to sully his good fortune, she wanted to stab Anne in the back, and he wanted to roar with the injustice of it. To berate her for her gall.

What if the King would want her back? She had proven that she was not as barren as they thought – she was pregnant now, healthier than ever, her beauty growing with her stomach. It was no secret that the King had once been truly, madly, deeply in love with her. Could Anne just be a womb for his heir but not the woman for his heart. Could the King wish to take back that which was his now knowing she could fulfill dreams and desires? NO. Thomas Boleyn would not allow that to happen. Katherine was his. He was loyal to his Majesty but he would not give him back his wife. _Katherine was his_.

He was angry, most of all because of this.

And then, in an instant, everything changed. Katherine stopped mid-tirade, her face flushing more than an indignant pink, her hand flying to her stomach. She pitched forward slightly, painfully. His heart jerked. She was losing the baby. Their baby. He was by her side in a flash, anger and guilt forgotten.

"Katherine," He asked softly, laying his hands upon her. Wordlessly she took it and placed it over her abdomen, small white hand holding it there. For a moment his eyes of ice met hers in confusion, and then in thunder struck aw.

A firm, healthy kick landed in the centre of his palm, strong feeling even through layers of skirts and fabric. That small movement, made but such a small life was like a kick to his heart.

* * *

_Note: I LIVE! It's been over a month, but I'm back from the dead. Also known as seven papers and finals. I have now complete my first semester of college and am looking at a month off with only napping, rowing, and eating to occupy my time. So hopefully I will have time to update! The only promise I can make is that I will TRY._

_Happy Winter Solstice to all my fellow Pegans!_


	40. 39 Kindness

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/Alice Middleton More (Angst), Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon (Hope)

* * *

Prompt #39: Kindness

_Alice Middleton More; Dear Mother, Beloved Wife._

The gravestone was small, simple. The grave was fresh, the sight brought tears to his eyes. For all of his masculine, stoic, pride Thomas More could not keep the sob silent in his breast. It ripped forth from his chest as the weight of everything settled onto his shoulders and forced him to his knees in the small, half forgotten graveyard. All the time he'd lost in the tower – he knew that it was lost time, but he never knew exactly what he was missing. What he had lost. Like the chance to say good-bye to his wife.

His last words to her had been full of stubborn pride. She had begged him to return to her, to do a seemingly simple task. To come back and make their family whole again. To stop his defiance of the King, spare his life and their livelihood. While he was taking his stand the King was taking his land, his money, his home. In the end he had quarreled with his wife and his actions left her with a final memory of him that was less than loving. His actions meant that she and their family would live to be turned out on to the street. Relying on charity for their bed and bread.

Thomas looked to the grave beside his wife, fresher yet, the final resting place of dear son William. William Roper, his son-in-law. They had argued, they had disagreed but More had respected the young man, his beloved daughter his Margaret had loved him. And now he too was gone. Working to provide for the family More, himself abandoned, good son Roper got sick and never had a chance to get better. And now his family was truly at God's mercy.

He could provide them nothing, the King had given him his life and nothing else, he could not write when he had no home. He was out of the government, and the law? Who would want a lawyer just out of prison himself?

Job never cursed God, never complained and his suffering was so great, Thomas knew his was so slight and yet in this moment he wanted nothing more than to throw his head back and scream to the heavens 'Why?'

Why had this happened to him?

Why could he not provide for his family?

Why had he let his pride get in the way?

And How

How could he make things better with his family?

How could he forgive himself for those last words spoken to Alice, so myopic and tense and unjust?

How could he carry on? Where had his strength gone?

Soft footfall behind him could not pull him from his sorrow. It was not until he felt a figure join him on his knees, feminine arms wrap around his shoulders did he look to see that which was around him.

Katherine of Aragon, Daughter of Spain, Queen of England, simply styled Princess Dowager by a reckless, blinded King, true friend, and true angel, the Duchess of Richmond and Somerset. She gathered him in her arms and pulled his weary head to her breast. He broke his pride no longer stronger than his emotions. And Katherine, Queen that she was, was also his friend, so close that she could see him cry.

"I have nothing, I am nothing." He said hoarsely. "What am I going to do Catalina?" Long, pale fingers combed soothingly through his dark, grey tinged hair.

"You will come and stay with me Thomas." She said softly. She said simply. "You will come and live with me."

* * *

_Dedicated to Doctor Madwoman, because I owe her._

_Merry Christmas/festive winter celebration, and if I don't see you, Happy New Year as well!  
_


	41. 40 Knave

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #40: Knave

_No man is so much a fool as not to have wit enough sometimes to be a knave; nor any so cunning a knave as not to have the weakness sometimes to play the fool.__ - __George Savile_

Boleyn knew he was a cunning man, he considered it part of his charm. He certainly considered it part of his fortune, for his birth had not brought about all that he now had. He had a son married to a beautiful prospect; his daughter was the Queen of England. He himself had procured a beauty of a match, the Princess Dowager. Not only did his marriage allow his daughter access to the throne, it meant that he was father of the Queen, his wife, Katherine, the Princess Dowager was regarded by the King as a sister, so he was in essence the brother in law to the King, He was also the grandfather of a princess and the future grandfather of a prince. Call him a Knave. He didn't care, he could have you killed. His life was set and all it had taken was some thought and a careful, cunning plan.

And yet there was one thing the Knave did not anticipate as he crafted his plan. It was a flaw and it was a weakness. A small, obvious oversight and it made him a fool – despite his careful, cunning plan. It was an angle he did not calculate for. Katherine. She had been a pawn in his plan, but never a factor. He never anticipated having feelings for his wife, at least none beyond disdain and lust. This slip up was enough to cost him his cunning status.

A fool could still be smart enough to be a knave. This Knave was a fool. A fool in love.


	42. 41 Knight

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Anthony Knivert/Anne of Cleves

* * *

Prompt #41: Knight

England was the land of Knights in Shining Armor, at least that was what her ladies told her from the time that her brother William had informed her of her marriage to the time she set foot on the island that was to become her home. Knights were handsome and strong, they saved beautiful princesses from ugly dragons. They were brave and true. Anne was to marry their King, a man who would surely be the embodiment of all Knightly Virtues. The flesh of Courage, Justice, Mercy, Generosity, Faith, Nobility, Hope, Strength, Humility, and Chastity. She was lucky to have such a match, such a man. Fairytales came true for princesses.

And then she met him, King Henry VIII, the Prince of these people, these famous Knights, men of honor. Except he was not. This was not the man whom she was promised. He wore no armor, indeed nothing about him shined at all. He was curt and he was rude, neither handsome nor kind. He arrived unexpectedly, ran his eyes all over her and left just as quickly, only a 'welcome' of dialogue between them. Wedding him made things no better. His temper was short, his leg grotesque. Anne was well aware that when she was nervous she perspired more than the average woman in her court, she knew that the slick of sweat that formed under her arms and across her brow was not _Parfüm_, but she never oozed. She had not gaping wounds.

Sometimes she thinks that Knights do not exist, only nightmares. There are times that she thinks that he is actually a hideous dragon like in the stories of old. His rage is always burning, he is an angry fire breathing man, even when he tries to charm her she can still smell a hint of smoke in the air. He knew nothing of Justice, the Pilgrimage, a dark time in his country's history was proof enough of that, though it had ended before she arrived on the fair Isle the horrors would live on. There was no Mercy in him, not towards his subjects, not towards his family. His own daughter, the beautiful and brilliant Lady Mary had been sent away from him when her mother did something that displeased him, she suffered for his moods, endured much more than she should have at such an age. The generosity of love was a concept as foreign to him as her native language, or the concept of humility. The man required brobdingnag castles, not for the people he lodged but for himself and his ego. Chastity, the thought made her laugh out loud.

Just like a dragon he kept her locked away, far from friends, from court, from family, and from affection – his or anyone else's. That was until he booted her from her tower, he had found a new damsel to devour. She was released from captivity into the wilds of his court, not a friend or a guide to lead her from the land of here be dragons and into a kingdom of knights.

***

"Sir Anthony Knivert now entering the list." The crier proclaimed, Anne sat forward a little on her seat. She was back at the court, at Henry's invitation, as his dear sister. This Joust, the banquet and all of the merriment was to celebrate the King's marriage. Anne looked down the stands to the bride, the maiden captured by the dragon, she was so very young. But her husband seemed enamored with her, and she seemed enamored with all the court around her. She applauded this next pair of competitors with great energy, the King applauded with far less. His regal face bore a sour expression and Anne was sure that a hint of smoke wafted her way.

Sir Anthony stopped in front of the King's stand and bowed low before his King and friend.

"Your Majesty." He said. Anne's attention flew from her sovereign to the man speaking. Tony. He had asked her to call him Tony. He was tall, with dark hair and a square jaw; his brown eyes were the kindest she'd ever seen. He had been the one to deliver the news that the dragon bid her to go. He had also been the one who took the time to show her to her new home, he had explained the ways of England to her. He had sacrificed his time to teach her English, to keep her company, and to make sure that she was protected as she lived alone in the country. He was strong and he was brave and he was handsome. He was the one who had persuaded her to see her dragon once again.

"Good Luck Tony." The King wished tightly. Tony nodded before moving down the box and stopping… in front of Her.

"My Lady." He said, smiling down at her, "Would you do me the honor of allowing me to wear your favors?" Favors, Tony himself had tied them around her wrist as he explained what they were. He had found her two strips of golden silk, he said that they reminded him of her. Anne smiled shyly, but rose and tied the strips to the lance head. She looked up at him with a smile, that he returned before lowering his visor and preparing to joust. His armor shining in the sun.


	43. 42 Kyrie

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Thomas Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #42: Kyrie

Thomas Cromwell sank to his knees, on the cold, hard Tower floor, he could hear them protesting. His body might be too old for such practices but it was his soul he was most concerned with. Folding his hand and bowing his head he prayed.

_Kyrie - Lord, Have Mercy.  
_

Each generation wishes greatness of the generation that follows them, every father wants the best for their son. They wish that their child avoids the pains they went through, there are things they wish to pass along, but far more that they wish to spare their loved ones from. Thomas Cromwell stuck knives in people. He was the product of violence, the was the perpetrator of violence. War was a better father than the man that sired him. Until Thomas Wolsey took him under his wing. The cardinal provided him with praise and encouragement for his education. Stability, employment, friendship, challenging mental exercises. The cardinal's non – canonical wife took it upon herself to "fatten him up."

The Cardinal helped him. Helped keep him out of the Putney gutter once and for all. Helped keep his desire for education fed, his skills sharpened. Helped prepare him for fatherhood. The Cardinal had been there for him – when he married Elizabeth. When Beth experienced cravings so strange and strong the Cardinal was there to tell him what was normal, what was not, and how to coupe. The Cardinal was there at the baptisms and the burials.

When Thomas Cromwell needed, Thomas Wolsey had. Thomas Wolsey gave. Wolsey had made his life as little easier, like a human father.

And then Thomas Wolsey needed, and did Thomas Cromwell have? Yes. Did he give? No. Cromwell returned to the lessons of Father War, the childhood of knives. It was human nature to care for oneself and oneself alone. Cut your losses. Life was survival. Life was war.

_In peace, let us pray to the Lord.  
Lord, have mercy. _

His wife had once pointed out that part of what brought about the fall of Wolsey was how thin he was spread. He had far too many masters for one man. God. The King. Politics. The French. His family and his agenda.

"Wolsey is a large man and he is stretched too thin, you are a lean man, Thomas, what makes you think you might spread as far?" Elizabeth had asked simply.

Even an entertainer could not keep that many balls in the air, his fall was looming, larger and larger with each ball introduced into the act. She had not spoken out of malice, but out of concern. When he accepted the job she sat him down and told him with all the force of her vibrant personality that he had one objective – stay alive. And he was to serve one master, one master alone. He was to serve his master faithfully, with all that he had, and then in the end return to her to live out the rest of his days. It was all she asked.

He chose to serve the King.

In all ways. In all things. Faithfully. To the best of his ability.

The King wanted a new wife. The King wanted the old Queen dead. It was what the King wished, what he wanted, and Thomas Cromwell was in a position to fulfill, to provide. He was the King's man in every way.

Yet the ink of her charges stained his hands like blood.

_For the peace form above and for our salvation let us pray to the Lord.  
Lord, have mercy. _

In his attempts to bring people together, uniting England in the true Faith everything was ripped apart. His reformation split a family, wife from husband, husband from daughter – child. The Reformation tore apart a country. And now Pilgrims wanted to tare him apart. It was the price of the true faith, nothing important was not without obstacles. Yet that did not assuage his fears. It did not make his fears any less. It did not make his guilt any less. To make an example of the rebels, to press on with what was right he had kill those who were violently wrong. Fathers. Women. Children. He had to tear apart Earthly families to make a heavenly one.

_For the peace of the whole world, for the well-being of the church of God, and for the unity of all let us pray to the Lord.  
Lord, have mercy. _

"All for Christ, None but Christ!" John's painful words ring in his head still, they have stung his ears since he cried them out, the only words his most eloquent friend had for his death.

The brutal torture that killed him.

John Lambert had been his best friend at Cambridge, another child of the streets and war. Another man searching for truth and light. Another facet of his life Cromwell forsake for politics.

His childhood was never mentioned, save with a sneer. His opinions were tempered for the preservation of his head. His books were hidden. And now, now his associations were denied. He was denying them. He lied. Ignored a friendship long withstanding. His life and his Reformation becoming a game of politics.

It is no longer a house of God. There is no house of God any more. Only a House of Parliament, a House of Princes and Popes. Praise and worship is directed towards egos, vanity, political powers. Not the father, nor the son, nor the Holy Ghost.

_For this holy house and for all who offer here their worship and praise let us pray to the Lord.  
Lord, have mercy. _

It was July the 28th, Thomas Cromwell was to die. He was a sinner. His death, all death, was deserved for every person was a sinner, save the one who died for his sins. He made his final prayer to God. A final private prayer. A confession of sins, a plea for forgiveness. A prayer for his Prince and a prayer for England and a prayer for his mercy upon soul.

_Help, save, comfort, and defend us, gracious Lord.  
Amen._


	44. 43 Lady

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer, nor am I a singer; I therefore do not own any thing. "She's a Lady" is by Tom Jones.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

* * *

Prompt #43: Lady

_Well she's all you'd ever want,  
She's the kind they'd like to flaunt and take to dinner.  
Well she always knows her place.  
She's got style, she's got grace, She's a winner.  
She's a Lady. Whoa whoa whoa, She's a Lady.  
Talkin' about that little lady, and the lady is mine._

Thomas Cromwell watched his wife prepare for dinner with mixed emotions. Above all he was glad to have her with him; her presence had been sorely missed. Living without her easy, beaming smile had been like living without the sun. A part of him wished to keep her in their chambers indefinitely, he had missed her so. A part of him wanted to throw a parade, to show her to court, to praise her wit and beauty in the way they should be. To perhaps flaunt his good fortune before the world, before the likes of Brandon who thought him too poor, too ugly, and too low to deserve anything, let alone a beauty that could make Helen of Troy appear pale and sickly in comparison. Any yet another part of him wished to keep her from court, lock her away from the Parises of the world. Others were young, rich and handsome. He was not.

She was a jewel, one that the King himself might fancy. It was not a good idea to have that which the King desired, he had a way of taking what he wanted and destroying its keeper.

Her keeper, Elizabeth would not like his line of thought; she did not like any idea that a man could ever own a woman. She was no one's but God's. In matters of the heart she demanded complete equality. Or humanity as she called it. A person could own a book. That book would be his. A woman was not something that was owned, a woman was a person that was loved. A woman was not a book, he often joked, because a book would be easier to read. But truly she was his – his heart and his soul.

Elizabeth glided towards him, fine eyes accented by brilliant smile and dress of her own design. There was nothing left to do, save offer her his arm and slip on the coat of duty, musings and desires left at the door.

"My Lady" he said warmly, ushering her to court.

_Well she's never in the way  
Always something nice to say, Oh what a blessing.  
I can leave her on her own  
Knowing she's okay alone, and there's no messing.  
She's a lady. Whoa, whoa, whoa. She's a lady.  
Talkin' about that little lady, and the lady is mine._

"And just what is this?" Elizabeth asked fiercely, pointing to a mark on her neck. One he'd proudly put their earlier that eve. It had darkened into an almost royal hue of red violet. "Am I some sort of cow you brand? I cannot believe you, Thomas!" Had she not been seething she would have realized that confronting him in not but her corset and underskirts was as futile as describing the sea to the blind. He had not been able to help himself, their reunion had been potent. And the sight of her at court with such a mark had assuaged some of his fears. It was now time to assuage his wife. He took her slim hips in his hands and drew her close. Her pale fingers pressed against his shirt, blue fire crackled in her eyes. To him her beauty was the greatest of God's creations, but it was second to her spirit. Her spirit was nonparallel.

"Before you protest that you are not mine, because you are not something one possesses, I tell you that you are. You are mine. You are my happily ever after, I love you, therefore you are mine, and if you love me than I am yours. You are a beautiful woman, my treasure, but the court is full of handsome, amours, rich men. How am I to compete?" Her clear blue eyes gazed into his soul as easily as they gazed through a window.

"Stultum virum mihi." Elizabeth whispered, cupping his square jaw tenderly. "Other men are more handsome and many have more money and titles older than we two. But," She said with force, making him hold her gaze. "But no man is smarter than you, or a better conversationalist. I have never laughed as much with any other, nor felt such joy. No man makes me smile when I am sad or feel safe with just a touch. I have shouted but one name to the heavens rapture, and that rapture will only ever be brought by one hand. So yes, there are some handsome men here, but I do not care. I am with you. Semper Fidelis."

_Well she never asks for very much and I don't refuse her.  
Always treat her with respect, I never would abuse her.  
What she's got is hard to find, and I don't want to lose her  
Help me build a mountain from my little pile of clay. Hey, hey, hey._

She never forbid him to cry, nor did she punish him for a lack of masculine control. She asked for nothing sort of complete and utter honesty. And if that meant tears, she wanted them to flow. If that meant anger she wanted something thrown, bit it fit or flower pot. She would push him and pull him until he would open up. He had a slow burning anger; it simmered and stewed but rarely erupted. Beth could make him erupt. She could withstand the blast and turn his words back on him. Others feared him. She did not.

There was some talk at court, he knew, about how miserable he must make life. How ill-using he must be, the Raven Secretary. It made him boil, their accusations. They made laughter bubble in Beth. She would kiss him in private and whisper that he should let them think what they like, for it allowed them more time alone together. She always made their alone time worth it.

_Well she knows what I'm about,  
She can take what I dish out, and that's not easy,  
Well she knows me through and through,  
She knows just what to do, and how to please me.  
She's a lady. Whoa, whoa, whoa. She's a lady.  
Talkin' about that little lady and the lady is mine._

"Thomas? Are you ever going to come to bed, Love?" The sun and court had retired long ago but not mister secretary. His eyes had blurred long ago, yet he worked on, faithful servant he was.

"I have much yet to do." He said wearily. Beth's cool fingers ghosted down his neck and across the hard planes of his shoulders. They nimbly untied the knots of his tight muscles. He melted under her loving touch. The crept up his hair line to a bundle of nerves at the base of his skull. He held his breath as she pressed on the angry knot. Pain shot through him but it quickly dissipated into peace.

"Your headaches will not improve with prolonged exposure to your handwriting Thomas. Come to bed

"But-" he protested, she cut him off firmly, like a lawyer she anticipated his every argument.

"The archdioceses have received their orders, and the law is clear. The Seymours have settled into their new apartments better than any of us could have hoped. The spending bill will sail through parliament un challenged and with the Kings mind on the conquest of women no treaties of perpetual and everlasting peace are necessary. Now your only job is to take care of yourself. And that begins with sleep." She was right, she was always right, but he was stubborn. He stifled a yawn.

"I'm not tired Elizabeth." She draped herself over his lap and placed a kiss on the exact spot between his ear and jaw that she knew affected his blood pressure. She nipped at his ear lobe before pressing a kiss to his mouth, fingers toying with his curls.

"Then come to bed anyway, you don't have to sleep." She flashed him a wicked smile.

_Yeah yeah yeah She's a Lady  
Listen to me baby, She's a Lady  
Whoa whoa whoa, She's a Lady  
And the Lady is mine_

_  
Yeah yeah yeah She's a Lady  
Talkin about this little lady  
Whoa whoa whoa whoa  
Whoa and the lady is mine  
Yeah yeah She's a Lady  
And the Lady is mine._


	45. 44 Lament

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke

* * *

Prompt #44: Lament

**L**ament, Tears worked down his cheeks as he was taken from his Joan. Lamenting that he could not even give her a proper good-bye.

**A**nimosity, the court was a cruel place. Every bitter word thrown at his family in loathing created a new wound within him. He lamented those moments, his love brought about such ill will to the most innocent and good.

**M**istress, he could not marry her like a proper gentleman and so his mistress she became, a position so far beneath her worth, her grace, and her dignity. Yet she never complained.

**E**xile, she was deprived of friends, cut off from family and ostracized from court. Living with him was living in exile.

**N**ame, she had been called every vile name in the vernacular, and a few not yet established. Every name a woman could be called, save one – her rightful one. Lady Joan Wolsey, most beloved _wife_ of Thomas.

**T**ime, the cart began to roll away, taking him far from his Joan, this the last he would see of her. His time was at an end. They were out of time.


	46. 45 Leave

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer, nor am I a Composer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Anne of Cleves  
Note: This is a songfic done a little differently. "Could I leave you?" Is from the musical "Follies" by Sondheim, the lyrics are italicized.

* * *

Prompt #45: Leave

"As far as I am concerned you are not my wife!" King Henry roared at his German Bride, sending her scurrying from his side and to her own chambers. She had been _trying_ to help him, _trying_ to be his wife. Time later, Edward Seymour, the eldest brother of the Kings beloved third wife came and informed her that she was no longer considered the Kings wife. She had a choice, she could leave or… she really didn't hear her other options. She was torn between her act of the loving wife, too devoted to her sovereign husband and the woman she was truly. One desperate to be free of a loveless tyrant. She thought she'd done her best performance yet as she sank to the ground and begged for time to reconcile her thoughts. She dismissed her ladies and Lord Seymour left. Alone, though watched, she was sure, Anne considered the portrait of her husband.

"_Leave you? Leave you? How could I leave you?_" She asked him sweetly. "_How could I go it alone? Could I wave the years away With a quick goodbye?" _She reached up and with a fair finger whipped her brown eyes, "How do you wipe tears away when your eyes are dry?" She flicked her finger away, not a hint of sorrow on it. She smiled and caressed the canvas.

"_Sweetheart, lover, Could I recover, Give up the joys I have known?_" Somewhere her King bellowed in pain, her sweet tone turned mildly sarcastic, as best as her German lit could produce in her non – native tongue. "_Not to fetch your pills again every day at five, Not to give those dinners for ten  
Elderly men from the U.N.-- How could I survive?"_ She stepped away from the picture fairly dancing around her room, fine skirt swinging in a full circle as she spun, giddy. She stopped at a bookcase, ancient shelves groaning under the weight of every leather bound book ever printed. She touched the spines of poetry, fiction, fact. She turned thoughtful.

"_Could I leave you, and your shelves of the World's Best Books, and the evenings of martyred looks, Cryptic sighs; Sullen glares from those injured eyes?" _She stepped back from the shelf and looked back to the portrait. The dark humor was fleeting from her voice, slowly being replaced by anger and hurt. He had brought her here from her homeland, family, friends. Kept her locked away from court, her own hobbies and thoughts. He treated her like some sort of animal, like she was too stupid to keep up with him just because English sounded different on her tongue. And now he wanted her to leave. She was certain that he thought that she would be heartbroken, for really, who would ever want to leave.

"_Leave the quips with a sting, jokes with a sneer, Passionless lovemaking once a year?" Her tempo began to increase as she approached the painting, hand coming up to point an accusing finger at the man who had ruined her life. "Leave the lies ill-concealed, And the wounds never healed, And the games not worth winning And-wait, I'm just beginning!"_ She took a moment to compose herself; if the English spies that defined the Tudor court were about and heard her speaking the truth… she was not free yet. But soon. Very soon. She adjusted her tone and façade of sadness.

"_What, leave you, leave you, How could I leave you? What would I do on my own?"_ She approached the painting. It was a large one, this portrait of the King, exactly his height (plus a little more for art's sake) and nearly his girth, (minus a little for vanity), standing toe to toe with him she pretended to think, as if he had asked her the question. What would she do on her own? All sorts of options came to mind.

"_Putting thoughts of you aside In the south of France, Would I think of suicide_?" She laughed outright and threw open her arms and spun once again, stopping with flourish to look back at her husband. "_Darling, shall we dance_?" She did a small jig of joy.

"_Could I live through the pain On a terrace in Spain?"_

"_Would it pass?"_ he asked her. Very drolly she replied.

"_It would pass."_ He would ask her about the hurt of her heart and how she would cope with the void he would leave. She thought aloud, wickedly.

"_Could I bury my rage With a boy half your age In the grass?"_ She cackled. "_Bet your ass."_ She was going to find a man that loved her, and that she loved. A man that would touch her – kiss her, fuck her properly. Not some impotent, angry, oozing man living on his delusions of grandeur and resting on his past good looks. She was going to find a man handsome now, not a man handsome twenty years ago. A man like Knivert, or Seymour, Bryan, or Cromwell even. All of them were infinitely better, all of them she'd thought about in the soft pink of desire. She had options, and those options would be won based on her good looks, not her power and fear.

"_But I've done that already--or didn't you know, love? Tell me, how could I leave when I left long ago, love?"_ He had never had her. She had never had him. She had never wanted him. But she was getting ahead of herself, she was not divorced yet. She had a roll to fulfill, one of the sad wife given an awful bit of news and a soul crushing choice.

"_Could I leave you? No, the point is, could you leave me_?" She looked at the mighty King. He wanted shuck of her for some slut. Well, he would get what he wanted, but only if she got what she wanted.

"_Well, I guess you could leave me the house, Leave me the flat, Leave me the Braques and Chagalls and all that."_ She ticked the items off on her fair fingers. "_You could leave me the stocks for sentiment's sake And ninety percent of the money you make. And the rugs And the cooks-- Darling, you keep the drugs. Angel, you keep the books_," Oh, this was too much fun, she could feel it bubbling through her veins again, the truth. "_Honey, I'll take the grand, Sugar you keep the spinet And all of our friends and-- Just wait a goddam minute!"_ She had to keep a lid on it, as hard as it was. She wished that this was his true face, not some artist rendering. She wished she could take that smug grin off his little bow mouth, she would say to him, with her head held high for once in her life.

"_Oh, leave you? Leave you? How could I leave you? Sweetheart, I have to confess: Could I leave you? Yes. Will I leave you? Will I leave you?"_ She tilted her head, waiting for an answer from the canvas. Her lips twisted in a wicked smile. _"Guess!"_


	47. 46 Low Loo

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon  
Note: The song is "The Castle of Dromore" an Irish Folk Song performed by Cherish the Ladies on their Christmas Album, "On Christmas Night".

* * *

Prompt #46: Low Loo

The Earl of Wiltshire was brought to a standstill by a soft sound coming from his daughter's chambers. Through the half open door he could see his wife, the Princess Dowager; she was a mere silhouette on the wall created by the soft glow of a single candle. He took a few steps closer into the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim of the room. Katherine stood over the cradle, gently rocking her daughter – their daughter, their beautiful Isabel. The babe was curled to her mother, one small hand touching the cross at Katherine's breast.

_The October winds lament around, the castle of Dromore  
Yet peace is in her lofty halls, my loving treasure store  
Though autumn leaves may droop and die, a bud of spring are you_

She was singing, he realized with a jolt, her soft Spanish alto was filling the nursery with a haunting Ulster song. He took one step closer, two steps, all the better to hear her melody, it called to him like a siren drew sailors to the rocks. She would be the death of him. He wondered sadly why she did not sing her child Spanish songs. He had forbidden them, yes, but he had never expected her to head such words. He never expected to feel sad to hear English spoken in his home. To wonder after the nature of Castilian lullabies was not in his plans. And yet neither had Isabel. Neither had this feeling, lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. This emotion akin to love had never crossed his mind until he felt… he shook his head and took steps closer, further into the plush nursery.

_Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan  
Hushabye loo, low loo_

He knew this song. He recognized it as the tune his mother would hum when he was young, when he was sick, when he was scared. He had been of the mind then to teach it to his own children, to use it to sooth their fears as it had soothed his. But when it came time for him to be a father he was many other things first. He was married to a Howard, he was a man of title and wealth, an Ambassador, he had no time for the lowly Gaelic tune; he had more important things to be. Idly he wondered how his Spanish Princess learned such a song.

_Bring no ill wind to him nor us, my helpless babe and me  
Dread spirits all of black water, Clan Owen's wild banshee  
And Holy Mary pitying us to Heaven for grace doth sue_

Isabel was ready to be put down for the night, he could see it in the way Katherine rocked her. It slowed, the rhythmic sway did, until it stopped and Katherine's fair hands adjusted to take the babe's slight weight from her breast and place it in the cradle. Boleyn gave up on remaining in the shadows, a specter and spy in the room. He moved to the end of the basinet, his large hands resting on the smooth carved wood of the footboard. He watched as his wife placed his baby girl on her bed, long raven locks falling around them both.

_Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan  
Hushabye loo, low loo_

His beautiful Isabel snuggled into her bed, little blue eyes closed in sweet sleep, small thumb tucked into her cheek. She was at peace, a little cherub caught between the devil and Queen. How she had grown, both in body and his heart. There was already talk, primarily by his daughter and the King, of sending her away to a nursery. But he fought. He claimed that Katherine's wellbeing depending on having this little one close. He did not let it slip that his well being depended on Katherine. It also depended on Isabel; he had not realized what he was missing until she came into his life, bringing her simple radiant joy with her. She shared the elation with Katherine, and with his own heart, warming it in a way long forgotten.

_Take time to thrive, my rose of hope, in the garden of Dromore  
Take heed, young eaglet, till thy wings are feathered fit to soar  
A little rest and then the world is full of work to do_

He joined Katherine in singing, his baratone not as sweet, but the moment was still beautiful. From across the cradle she looked at him, eyes wide as their child drifted fully into a sleep, dream full of loving parents, roses, and happiness.

_Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan  
Hushabye loo, low loo_


	48. 47 Lucifer

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Philip of Bavaria/ Mary Tudor  
Note: Lucifer, a Latin word meaning Light - Bringer

* * *

Prompt #47: Lucifer

A candle. A solitary candle, tall, white and utterly ordinary, but strange all the same. Philip stared at the wax light. He had not packed such an item. The English King was peculiar but not crazy enough to be without the most base of technologies. He had not taken the taper with him when he left the country either. He hoped to return one day soon to the island, to steal the heart of a Princess. He could not steal a candle from the King when the hand of his daughter was on the line.

So the candle, virgin white and un burned, foreign in his back perplexed him. Philip weighed it in his hands for a time before setting it aside to finish unpacking his bag and settling into the long, lonely journey home.

Under his shirts he found a letter, fair as the candle and equally as out of place. _Philip_ written neatly across it's back. He sat on his bed, letter in hand, candle by his side.

_Dearest Philip,_

_I asked your valet to pack this letter, please forgive my forwardness, but I knew once my Father thought to send you away I would not see you in person again. Please accept this letter and candle as gifts from my heart. Philip, my world was dark, dark as night, it had been for most of my life. Unhappiness my companion constant. And then you._

_Philip, you are a light in my darkness. I love you. I will always love you. For you brought me light. Please, look at this candle and know that though we are far you are a torch in my heart._

_With all my heart, I love you._

_Mary_


	49. 48 Lux

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper  
Note: Lux, Latin for Light

* * *

Prompt #48: Lux

A pinprick against the black the candle glows. Throwing off light, against the vast night it does not appear to be trying at all. Overwhelmed the candle still burns, and perhaps with a little help it will grow, the tables will turn and light will overthrow darkness.

The candle he holds reflects in her blue eyes. But it is not the only light he sees. There is another flame, small as the candle. It is the flame of love and it burns for him. Faint now he will help it grow. Help it outshine the dark of sorrow and fear.


	50. 49 Lyric

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon (Implied)  
Note: Inspired by Garth Brooks' "Wrapped Up in You"

* * *

Prompt #49: Lyric

Sir Thomas More found himself under a tree, his back pressed against the rough bark; he sat looking out onto the beauty that was the garden of Hampton Court. It was not that he disliked nature; he loved and respected all of God's creations for they were gifts from God to man, even the undeserving. It was that he had not been outside for the sake of enjoyment in a very long time. A very, very long time. Before Alice died a long time. Before the Trial a long time.

But he was outside now, blank paper on his lap, quill in hand, but no thought in his mind but one. He was supposed to be writing a book, another collection of scholarly thought and research. His chosen topic Richard the Third and how the Tudor dynasty came to be. But his mind could not be farther from the princes in the tower. Every time he put pen to paper things came out the same.

_Katherine._

Page upon page, poem upon poem, each worse than the last until an hour was gone and nothing had been accomplished. Thomas looked down at the latest page.

_Katherine, How do I love you  
Well let me see  
I love you like a lyric loves a melody_

_How do I need you  
Can't you tell  
I need you like a penny  
Needs a wishing well_

_Well how do I love you  
Let me count the ways  
There ain't no number high enough  
To end this phrase_

_How do I love you  
Well don't you know  
I love you bout as deep  
As any love can grow  
_

He sighed and gathered his papers and headed back for his chambers. No scholarly activities would be getting done today, his mind was completely wrapped up in other things.

* * *

_I'm Baaack! It's been too long, I know, I apologize. While on hiatus I semi-successfully survived midterms, spring training and three days of regatta. I'm not looking for a metal, just forgiveness for neglecting this for so long. Also I do apologize for the disgusting number of songfics in this update, I couldn't seem to help myself,__ I listen to a lot of music.... and__ for some reason EVERY song seemed to fit a Tudors situation. _


	51. 50 Marissa

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Arthur Tudor/ Katherine of Aragon_  
Note:__ This prompt title started as a joke. My dear friend Ms. BoleynGirl13, the author of King Arthur II, and I were talking and I thought that there should be more ArtKat fluff in the world, and since she's my expert on the couple I asked her for a prompt, she joked that her name started with M (since these Oddments are arranged alphabetically). Well I looked into it.__ Marissa is derived from Latin, Mare is the Nominative, Nuter, Singular word for 'Sea' when declined Mari is the singular, genitive form, in English it is translated as 'of the sea.' And so I give you..._

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_Prompt #50: Marissa

Once Upon a Time…

In a kingdom by the sea a young prince looked out onto the vast blue waters and wished for a bride. He wished with all of his hearts for a Queen, a woman with whom he could rule his kingdom, a woman who could rule his heart. Someone smart and beautiful. Someone he could love and someone who could love him in return. The sea heard him, heard his plea. The sea, in her infinite wisdom, granted his wish.

She came by the sea, on the ship _The Concha_, the shell, it was fitting for she was Venus. He stood on the shore of his kingdom by the sea to watch her alight from her ship, and when she emerged from her cabin the sea smiled, the sun beamed. Not that the Prince saw. He saw nothing but her. His Queen. She eclipsed all the world in his eyes.

Her raven locks curled and fluttered in the breeze, they kissed her alabaster cheeks. Her eyes were blue, blue as the waves around her and the sky above her. The Prince fell in love. They married the Prince and his gift from the sea. His Queen was as beautiful as the water and as wise as its depths. The Prince and his wife lived happily ever after, they ruled their kingdom fairly and wisely and each day their love grew.

***

"And then one day the Queen told her husband that they were to have a child. That night the ebullient prince looked out onto the vast blue waters and wished once again. He wished with all his heart that his child find a love as powerful and deep as the love he had found. The sea heard him, and in due time the sea will grant his wish. One day, Mary, I promise, you will find a husband who will love you as much as I love your mother, you will have a child of your own and love him or her as much as I love you. Pleasant dreams, My Pearl." King Arthur the Second bent his regal red head and placed a loving kiss on the brow of his only child, the Princess Mary who beamed happily at her father.

"Good night Papa," She said sleepily, snuggling under the thick fur her beloved father tucked under her chin. With a final smile and a kiss the King extinguished the candle by his child's bed and exited her chambers for his own.

"You stretch the truth, mi amor." A sweet soft Spanish accent stopped the King outside of the Princess' chambers. Arthur turned to find his wife, the beautiful Catalina of Aragon standing in the hall; she had been listing to his bedtime story as well.

"In what way, Catalina, in what way?" He asked her with a smile, his large hands seeking her waist, not as slim as it once was, not that the King minded. Others dismissed their wife after child birth, never took to their bed again once the weight of pregnancy settled over the mother's body but Arthur was not one of those men. He loved his wife's curves, the way the filled his hands, the way they pressed against him in the night.

"Our love was not that easy, Arthur, do you not recall, we did not even like each other for most of that first year." She smiled at the memory, it was so trivial and slightly embarrassing, how they acted that first year, so very long ago.

"I've loved you so deeply for so long, amor de mi vida, I suppose that I forget on occasion." Catalina laughed and kissed her husband happily. Their love had not been a fairy tale but they would still live happily ever after.

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_ANII: This does her no justice but I dedicate it to BG13... Go read King Arthur II and see how this couple should to be written._


	52. 51 Marmoreal

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell  
_AN: This was originally supposed to be part of a full length traditional fic, which I realized I will probably never actually write, and so, I am recycling. Happy Earth Week.  
Marmoreal: adj. made of marble, or like marble, especially in being white, cold, or aloof and impressive.

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Prompt #51: Marmoreal

King Henry VIII collided with something soft, yet solid as he took his leave from his Secretary's office. A quiet 'uff' reached his ears and he looked down into clear blue eyes that widened before adverting. He'd run into a woman.

"Your Majesty!" she exclaimed, "Prey pardon me, your Majesty, I am so-"

"Tis quite alright, milady, and entirely my fault." Henry charmed, large hand extended, pulling her from her deep curtsy. He looked at her.

She was not beautiful enough for him to make one of her liaisons, but she was a pretty piece of scenery none the less. She was fair, her eyes were a clear blue, from under her green velvet cap a few blonde curls spilled out. Her dress was flattering, a fine shade of green velvet and cream silk, the neckline giving a nice view thanks to their striking height difference. Who was this woman with the delicately featured face? Why was she here?

"Is there something I can do for you, Mistress?" The King asked, his eyes looking her over from hat to heel. The woman smoothed a hand over her skirt in a nervous gesture, the King's critical eye catching a sparkle of sun reflecting off of a poor lover's token, a Latin inscription looking vaguely familiar, encircled the band.

"Is Mister Secretary Cromwell engaged?" She asked, her voice held spirit and the tones of a local accent.

"Mister Cromwell?" Henry asked in mild shock. What could this woman want with a secretary and a lawyer. He was not nearly as handsome as Brandon or as powerful as the King. Secretary Cromwell was simply an unimportant man, a cold, hard working Raven. The woman smiled at the name.

"Yes, Mister Cromwell, is he engaged?"

"No, he is not engaged, but he does not like surprises." A pretty, knowing smirk parted her full lips.

"I am aware."

"Elizabeth?" In the door way the secretary himself stood; a tall impressive figure in harsh black. His face was an unreadable mask as he looked at the petite woman before him. The woman, Elizabeth, blossomed. Her smile was like the sun, bright and radiant. She would be considered average by many, except for when she smiled, the happiness beaming from her made her absolutely stunning.

"Thomas!" She exclaimed taking a step forward and throwing her arms ups to embrace him. A look from his onyx eye brought them down again, her expression slipping. He looked down at her cold and closed.

"I did not expect you until this eve." He said in his dark voice, onyx flicking towards the King. "I see you have already met his Majesty." Henry watched her petite ears turn a soft rose.

"I was so excited to surprise you, but it seems that I was the one who received the surprise." She said taking his large hand in both of her smaller ones. It was as if she were trying to hold the hand of the statue David, the man was as cold and aloof as marble.

"You always did know how to make a first impression." It was a dry humor the secretary possessed. "Your Majesty, may I present my wife, Elizabeth Cromwell." The Lady curtsied again.

"Your Majesty."

"Mistress Cromwell." The King bowed, he would perhaps take the woman as a mistress just so that she might receive some affection, Secretary Cromwell resembling a marble statue more by the second. "I am sure you have more catching up to do." Henry bowed. "Mister Secretary, Mistress Cromwell." The King was off; he had to find his Anne, to shower her with affection – lest she think him a cold Cromwell.

"We are alone now." Elizabeth said closing her husband's heavy office door. "You may greet me properly." The stone mask he wore shattered into a million pieces as Thomas smiled and swept his wife up in his arms, spinning, her feet off of the ground, he then sat her on his desk and kissed her soundly, tongue sliding betwixt the lips he'd been missing for so long. He pulled back, kissing her in short pecks, peppering his words with the sound of their lips meetings.

"I'm sorry, Elizabeth, I-" She cut him off, kissing him deeply, her fingers in his short hair.

"Thomas, if the one grievance I have with you in our marriage is your dislike of public displays of affection I am a most blessed wife indeed." She kicked off her shoes, her bare feet swinging from the desk on either side of his hips. "But if you would like to make it up to me I would not be opposed." She smirked at him and he smiled wolfishly, an idea aglow in his dark eyes. His hands sliding up her legs, he pushed her skirt up and out of the way before dropping to his knees on the plush rug, his head following his hands up her skirt, farthingale obstructing her view.

"Thomas, wha-" her question was cut off by his long, writing callused fingers touching her most sensitive area. His tongue slipped between her folds and she sent a stack of papers flying from his desk as she writhed, fingers searching for traction, for leverage, for something to hold onto as his lips brought about such sensation. Pleasure hummed in her blood making her body sing until she saw stars. He lapped at her like a cat, tongue taking little strokes, building tension, tasting her thoroughly. Her fingers dug into his hair, tugging at his curls mindlessly as he inserted two long fingers into her warm channel, stroking her inside and out until her most intimate muscles were clenching around him, her arousal coating his fingers, playing across his tongue, his name moaned low and guttural.

Thomas extracted himself from her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, licking his fingers as if they were covered in sweets. Her orgasm had made her limp; her taste had made him hard. She wasn't immobile for long, soon her tongue flicked over the roof of his mouth behind his teeth, her hands sliding to the waist of his breeches. With a few quick flicks of her wrist the satisfying sound of lace through leather rang throughout the office. She shoved the constricting fabric away and he sprang forth, his cock a proud arch to his stomach. Her slim hand took him in a fist as if it was a handle and pulled his hips gently to hers, he smiled, blessed to have a wife as insatiable as he. Hooking a shapely leg over his shoulder he thrust into her, slowly, fully, her lock a perfect fit for his key, as it was in the beginning, as if it was divine design. She moaned, another pile of papers flying, with what little part of his brain left to be dry he thanked God that there had not been any open ink on his desk when his wife arrived, the papers would be a big enough mess. He paused at his hilt, enjoying their connection, perfect every time they made it.

"I missed you. Oh how I missed you." Elizabeth whispered over and over again until he took her voice with the tilt of his hips and a deeper penetration as he rocked her back slightly. All the better angle for her pleasure and thusly his own. The surge of power he felt as she cried his name to the ceiling was as potent as sight of her body or her touch on his skin. Harder, faster, deeper. In and out, swivel of hips, clench of muscles. He nipped and sucked at her neck, feeling the vibrations of her throaty pleasure under his lips, her fingers scoring down his back, tunneling through his hair, her legs holding him tight, one foot pointed straight up by his ear, the other heel digging into his flanks urging him on. Coherent thought was not to be had until the blinding flash of light and his release, her most sensitive feminine muscles clenching around him until they were both utterly spent and he dry.

A knock at the door came with her last quake, husband and wife looked at each other wide eyed, how long had that been going on? Elizabeth tried to run, flushing hot pink but Thomas held her fast,

"Don't move," he whispered, "I need you for cover." He wrapped his arms around her waist and positioned her so her skirts, back in place, covered the fact his pants were still down around his knees. Elizabeth looked from him to the papers, thrown around his desk like a dusting of snow, to the door. Her husband barked,

"Enter." She began to laugh, silently, her body shaking from the bottled mirth.

A boy, tall and thin entered, his eyes growing as large as the badge on his chest as he looked in amazement upon the stoic secretary entangled with a woman. Elizabeth laughed harder, how they must look! Thomas gave her a squeeze; if he intended it to silence her he failed. He looked at the boy,

"Yes Caleb," he said sternly, although slightly undermined by the woman shaking in his arms. He could feel his trousers sliding further down his legs. "What is it?" Caleb, the boy, stared for a moment more before remembering his place and purpose.

"The King invites you and your…wife to dine with him tonight." He said with only minor hesitation, 'wife' seemed to be a foreign concept to associate with the King's raven of a secretary.

"Thank you Caleb, tell the King that it is our greatest honor to receive his invitation." The boy nodded but did not leave to inform his sovereign. Rooted he stared at his master and the woman in his arms, Wife, if he allowed logic to dictate his guess. Thomas stared right back at him.

"Is there something else?" He asked with a barbed tongue, his wife giggling against him, the smell of her hair, their long absence had him excited once again. The boy blinked, snapping out of his daze.

"No, no sir. I shall inform his Majesty of your acceptance." He turned to the door before turning back, "Good Day Mister Secretary, Mistress."

The door had barely latched behind the boy when a booming laugh resounded from Elizabeth's chest, it had been held in too long. Her eyes streaming with mirth she looked up at her husband who was more reserved in his amusement.

"We'd not had a shave that close in a while." She chortled, whipping her eyes she looked between them and then at the desk, papers strewn about. "What a picture this is. I hope those weren't important." She nodded towards the mess. He kissed her temple.

"Nothing is more important than you." She smiled and kissed his cheek.

"I am going to return to our room."

"What? Why?" the moment he had envisioned, a second position involving his wife and his desk, was dashed. She cast her eyes down to his member and quirked a brow with appreciation in her eyes.

"We are to dine with the King! I need to get dressed! And by the looks of things, so do you." She smiled, picked up her hat and headed for the door.

"Wicked woman!" He called after her; she paused and threw a smile over her shoulder.

"Would you have it any other way?"

No. No he wouldn't.

Thomas cooled, remaining in his office until he could walk to his chambers without embarrassing himself. When he did finally return to his rooms Elizabeth was before his vanity, dressed in a new gown of slate blue, comb gliding through her curls as she prepared for their dinner with the King. He came behind her and moved aside her blonde mane, kissing along her neck. She looked ravishing, the slate blue of her gown brought out her eyes. She giggled a little, fingers curling in his dark hair. He didn't want to go to dinner. He didn't want to share her. Thomas loved the King, loved his Majesty with the entirety of his loyal heart, and yet, Henry liked beautiful things…

After several minutes and the undoing of all her hard work Elizabeth put a stop to his most ardent worship of what little skin he could lay his hands on.

"Dinner. Thomas, Dinner. Thomas – stop. Dinner." He did not listen. She took him by the ear and pulled.

"What?" He snapped in pain, jarred from his private devotions.

"God, you'd think you're ears are big enough you'd have heard me the first time. We have to have dinner. With the King." She turned on the stool, looking mussed and wanton, hair well loved by his fingers, lips swollen by his kiss, a dark circular bruise forming at the junction of her neck and her shoulder. "We haven't the time to finish what we're starting," She looked pointedly to his crotch, a proud bulge in his breeches. "And we don't want to be an embarrassment." He shoved his hands in his pockets, frustrated.

"I'll wait outside." She smiled and turned back to the mirror, picking up her brush to begin anew.

He was barely in the next room when

"THOMAS!" Roared through their chambers, turning back to the door he found Elizabeth filling the space, hands on her hips, full breasts heaving. "What is THIS?!" she pointed to the proud hickey on her neck, one that she couldn't hide. He smiled, rather satisfied with himself.

"What's what, my heart?" She marched to him, by far bigger than her five foot stature.

"Don't you 'my heart' me, Thomas Cromwell, I look like a French Whore." He knew her distain for lover's marks, she found them trashy. He tended to agree but he could not help himself. He had longed for her to join him.

"No, you look like my wife." He took her by the narrow waist, the one thing she hated more than lovers' bites was the idea that a man could posses a woman – that a woman was anything less than human. Looking into her blue eyes spitting fire, showing the spirit he loved, the spirit he married, he spoke softly.

"You are my beautiful jewel, and I am simply your husband how am I to compete? I bring no ladies to their knees in a swoon, most look at me as some sort of over grown bat, others a statue, too boring and stiff to be alive. I want to show them that I am alive." She raised a hand and cupped his square cheek, she spoke with a teasing smile,

"You brought me to my peak again and again, I will attest that you are very much alive, Thomas, and anyone who does not see that is not worth our company." She gave him a chaste kiss, "You are forgiven – this time." He moved to kiss her but she pressed a pale finger to his lips, a small smile quirking her own. "Ah, this time I really must get ready to go." She retreated back into the bedchamber.

King Henry VIII found it very strange indeed to see his cold, calculating secretary with a woman on his arm, especially since she was by far more attractive than he. But on his arm she was. She had changed out of her traveling dress and into a dress of slate blue, the color brought out her clear blue eyes, her blonde hair was up in a bun under a matching blue French hood. He could not find one way that she and her husband were not opposites. Her husband, Mr. Secretary Cromwell was dressed in his usual dower dark robes; he towered over his petite wife. The King smiled at them both. This would prove to be an interesting evening.

It was then that Henry's regal eye noticed something about Mrs. Cromwell. Something he'd not seen when he met her that morning. A dark circle had appeared along her clavicle near the junction of her slender neck. It was a lover's bite, something he himself was familiar with. He looked upon his secretary again, this time in a new light. Perhaps he was not as cold as the King once thought. An interesting evening indeed.

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_ANII: Yes, yes, I reused the hickey scene, it's just that I find it so… versatile? Perhaps I'm unimaginative, but I thought it applicable both here and in Lady._


	53. 52 Maturity

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Henry VIII, Thomas More  
_AN: Just a thought I had, in honor of the most versatile sentence in the English Language. Thought of it during rowing practice, where these things are actually yelled at us through a megaphone with a straight face. This is possibly the stupidest thing I've ever written in my life. Enjoy.

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Prompt #52: (im)maturity

"That's it Lawrence, bend the shaft!" The coxswain gruffly called, "All of you – take it! Take the load!"

"That's what she said." Sir Thomas more looked over the document he and the King were discussing; His Majesty snickered at his own crude joke. More returned to his reading. Of course Henry's mind would be in the gutter.

"I bequeath to thee a chest of hard wood-"

"That's what she said."

"- and all the pleasures found inside for our Majesty's leisure."

"That's what she said."

"Indeed your aunt did say that."

"In bed." More gritted his teeth. Patience was a virtue… and in short supply.

"Shall we see what is in her trunk?" He motioned to the ornate chest sitting with them under the stern tent.

"Junk." Henry said, he was lounging on a chase, paying even less attention than usual.

"Excuse me. A daughter of Margaret Beaufort*** does not have junk."

"She has junk in her trunk." More looked back at the King, who was looking at a woman on the shore. More turned to the chest again and tried the lid. It wouldn't budge; the top had been nailed shut.

"It's been nailed quite well."More grunted, his brute force not moving the top an inch.

"So was your mom." Thomas put his head down on the ornate chest and banged it slightly, he'd set himself up for that one.

"Seriously, how old are you?!"

"That's…what she said?"

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_***Also I gave no real thought to whom Henry's Aunt would be for forgive me if I got some lineage stuff off._


	54. 53 Mine

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/Katherine of Aragon  
_AN: A Companion to Green from Oddments.

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Prompt #53: Mine

"Wife?" Boleyn called, he had seen the Princess Dowager just moments ago. Thomas Boleyn was tired, for once the court grated on his nerves of steel. His daughter, The Queen, his own favor with the King made him exceptionally popular. Men wanted his friendship, women, his courtship. Boleyn simply wanted his wife and his bed. But Katherine had managed to disappear into the woodwork.

"Thank you Thomas. You do not know how your words warm my heart." Boleyn's senses piqued at Katherine's Spanish alto. Thomas. There was but one man who she called Thomas, warm and sweet as a summer breeze. More. Thomas More. Boleyn growled. Blood rushed in his ears, his vision was washed in emerald envy and scarlet rage. Katherine was _his_. It was true she didn't love him – he didn't love her, their marriage was political insurance, nothing more. Except in this moment – everything was more. Sir Thomas More – and he was touching Boleyn's wife. For a man who didn't care for Katherine – didn't care if she lived or died, he was furious. Katherine was his wife damnit. Boleyn had never peen possessive of a woman before, but he was putting a stop to his More nonsense. Now.

Katherine slapped him and challenged him once he brought her to their rooms, her eyes spitting fire at him.

"And why not?" she snapped. With the last coherent thought he had in his fury he blurted.

"BECAUSE YOU ARE MINE!"


	55. 54 Modern Mouse

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Henry VIII, Anne of Cleves (Modern)  
_AN: This idea came to me when thinking back on how Henry just burst in on Anne and then made all of his decisions about her based on their first impressions, well, what if he came at a bad time? I also got to thinking about Joss Stone and how she's so Hollywood homely it's not even funny. Also, also it's late and I just got home for the summer after surviving my first year of college – I'm celebrating with some Crack!Fic.

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Prompt #54: Mouse

"You have a visitor Annie." Sarah Boeke said softly, poking her head into the bedroom. Anne von Cleves spat her Mountain Dew all over her keyboard at her best friend's words.

"What?" She choked, pounding her chest. Sarah closed the door and crossed into the room.

"Keep your voice down," she hissed, "It's the King, he wants to see you NOW." Anne looked down at herself, German flag toe socks, grey sweatpants, orange Mighty Mouse tee and black zip up hoodie, her hair was wet from the shower she'd just taken. She was wearing her retainer and glasses!

"Now?" She squeaked. She'd just gotten into the country, it was nearly eleven o'clock, she was tired and disgusting and it wasn't like she wanted to be there in the first place.

It was her _Arschloch_ brother's doing, this whole mess. Just because he was the first born son he thought he could dictate her life. And so now she was sitting in England waiting for some archaic arranged marriage like she was some Medieval damsel. She had a job – and a life – of her own, damnit. And she wanted nothing to do with this King. She'd heard about him – and his three failed marriages. She thought the common factor was fairly clear. But no, here she was, sent to court some guy nearly twice her age. Here she was being forced out into the hall and to the living room by her best friend because said guy was too bossy and impatient to come back tomorrow.

"Your Majesty." Sarah said, her grip so tight Anne was certain that she would have bruises. The King, who had been looking at the picture over the fireplace turned, slowly and Anne felt herself wince a little. He was… gross. Tall yes, but equally as wide, his impressively expensive suit did nothing to flatter him. He leaned a bit on a cane, his fingers looking like sausage bursting out around the rings he wore on every finger. His beard was grey and his hair was slicked back, making him look unclean rather than dignified. She managed a smile. He didn't, he looked at her with as much disgust as she felt towards him. At least she had hid it!

"Anne." He said hesitantly, "I am… so glad that you have arrived safely; it is a… pleasure to meet you at last." He choked on his words. Anne tried to smile.

"Thank you, Your Majesty; it is nice to finally meet you as well." She lisped with her retainer, but for once she wasn't embarrassed, frankly it only helped her cause.

"I will let you get your rest, for you must be exhausted, I simply wanted to welcome you myself." He practically ran from the room, she'd never seen a fat man move so quickly as he did after extending her the most minimal of pleasantries.

"I LIKE HER NOT!" She could hear his outraged exclamation from inside. Anne flipped him off since he could not see her.

"I'm not that fond of you either Asshole!" She said venomously before turning to her friend Sarah who was laughing.

"You keep looking like that and you'll be on the next plane out of here." She commented. Anne paused.

"You're… right…" She smiled.


	56. 55 My Child

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None - Wolsey

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Prompt #55: My Child

The Queen glared at him, hurt churning in her hurricane blue eyes.

"You are taking her from me, from my very arms." She said hoarsely. The Cardinal swallowed, easing the words stuck in his throat, making the half truth spun in a positive light slip from his lips easier.

"His Majesty only wishes to set the Princess up with an establishment befitting her position."

"You are ripping her from me as if you were ripping her from my womb! This is your doing Wolsey." Her mother's grief bled him more than her barbed tongue ever could.

"Please believe me when I say that I am simply here on behalf of his majesty, others have poisoned your mind against me for I do not want to take your daughter from you."

"And yet you do it anyway!" Katherine spat. It was moments like these that made Wolsey hate himself. If he were an architect he would never have the unpleasant take of severing a mother from her child. Joan had been sick with sorrow when Thomas left for university and Dorothy for a husband. The poor Queen. A mother's lot was an unhappy one.

Wolsey watched as Katherine ran, sprinted to her child, knowing that this would likely be the last she would ever see of her beloved daughter.

That eve Wolsey went to his chambers with a heavy heart, he sank on to the sofa without a word, head in his hands. From the door Dorothy watched her father.

"Daddy?" she asked softly, entering the sitting room, he reached for her, she settled across his lap as she had when she had been small. She no longer fit as nicely but the old Cardinal did not care, he held her close, burying his nose in the crown of her head, he inhaled deeply. His baby's head, it was a sweeter smell than any rose. For a moment they sat in silence, his adult daughter still his little girl.

"There are times," he said after a time, pulling away slightly too look into his blue eyes set in Joan's face, Dorothy, the perfect combination of her parents. "There are times, when a man need to hold his child." Dorothy gave him a soft smile and kissed his high forehead.

"I love you Daddy."


	57. 56 Name

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More

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Prompt #56: Name

Eustace touches my stomach with a hesitant hand; he does this every time we are alone, as if he cannot believe his eyes. I am a proud seven months round; there is no mistaking my condition. I am swollen, my chest has grown to accommodate nursing, my belly to protect my child, my feet because a woman's lot to be uncomfortable in her confinement. My smile is perhaps the most engorged thing of all, I cannot hide my joy – I am carrying a child conceived in love, a bond between Eustace and myself, a perfect union of our two hearts.

I lay my hand atop Eustace's, he treats me as if I am glass, my big strapping Spaniard is an absolute kitten. Oh to Laugh! But I would wound him or worry him, two things I could never do… no matter how adorable he is or how silly.

He sits beside me, his hand still resting on my abdomen.

"Have you given any thought to a name, mi amour?" he asks me softly. I lie.

"Not much." In truth I have thought of only one name, should we be blessed with a son, however I dare not mention it, I fear it would hurt my beloved Eustace and I cannot bear the thought.

"I have," he says simply, taking my gaze and holding it with intensity and affection. "I believe a son should be named William." After my late husband, the name I thought of but never said.

"But Eustace," he holds up a great hand, silencing me gently.

"Your husband was a good man, mi amour, a man who deserves to be remembered and honored." Tears prick me; I am touched, deeply by the gesture, though perhaps the pregnancy is the cause of my tears. He looks bewildered by my tears and I cannot but kiss him.

"Oh Eustace," I whisper, "You don't know what your suggestion means to me… thank you." I caress his cheek and hope my eyes say all that words cannot. There is a moment.

"What if we have a girl?"

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_AN: My computer is back from the grave! Summer time and a new hard-drive and I'm hoping to be good to go._ *Crosses fingers*


	58. 57 Nature

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Philip of Bavaria/ Mary I

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Prompt #57: Nature

They walked in companionable silence for a time, Mary's small hand tucked in Philip's strong arm. He relished their closeness, her touch as they traversed one of the many gardens at Hampton Court Palace. Her hand on his arm was a reminder that she was real. When Mary's father, King Henry divorced Philip's cousin Anne, Philip had been sent from court and he had been certain that he would never see his pearl again. But Anne was reconciled with the King, one of the first ladies at court now, she and Her Majesty herself, Queen Katherine Parr seemed to have taken an interest in Mary's love life and that meant taking an interest in hm. He was honored that they thought him worthy of such a jewel.

The sun was setting, casting purple and tangerine shadows down on them through the trees. Philip looked at Mary who was smiling as she looked at the flowering vine that covered the iron arch over their path and he was struck. Struck by her beauty - by his need to marry her. He stopped under the arch taking both of her hands in his. He had heard it said that when you knew you knew and Philip knew – no one would complete him like Mary did. He could love no one as deeply as he loved her and he could not picture his future without her.

She looked up at him in wonder and he fell to his knees.

"Marry me." He said. Tear sprang to her clear blue eyes, her mother's eyes he had heard.

"Oh Philip…. I – I can't." It was if a knife had been plunged into his heart. He his blood leave him.

"You do not love me." He chocked, tears forming.

"I do!" She cried making her eyes sparkle and Philip's heart wrench. She was so beautiful and he could not stand to see her cry.

"I do love you Philip; I love you very much, but my father…. I do not think he will allow me, a Princess of England to marry you." Philip took a deep breath she loved him, that was not the problem. The problem was something else, something he could fix.

"Mary, it is true I am a Duke, but I am not an English Duke, where I am from I am important, worthy of a Princess, if she will have me." Mary's eyes dried a little and Philip stood ready to take her in his arms, but she demurred.

"Philip, it will never work, you are a Lutheran and I am Catholic." Philip cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes with a gentle hand.

"Mary, I believe in God, the creator of Heaven and Earth, not in how he is worshiped. If it is important to you than I am Catholic as well, it was how I was baptized and how I will marry if it means that I may marry you." He moved to kiss her but she pulled away, heading down the path.

"Philip, I do not know if I am – if it is in my nature to be happy. I love you, but-"

"But what Mary?" he asked catching her again. "I love you, you love me, so long as we have each other we will be able to endure the fiercest storm. Do not question the nature of love but embrace it!" he kissed her, there would be no further argument.

"Marry me." He whispered.

"Yes!" she replied throwing her arms around his neck.


	59. 58 Nonparallel

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

* * *

Prompt #58: Nonparallel

Katherine entered the room and Thomas felt his breath catch in his chest. She was stunning. The world faded away until it only left him and her.

Other women were young but they couldn't hold a candle to his Katherine. Her poise, her smile, the way she walked in beauty. She was an angel among mortals. Sweet and kind. Anne Boleyn was lithe and exotic but Katherine had a goodness about her. It made her that more beautiful.

She was a work of art. She was at his side, her arm winding through his. She was beautiful and she was his.


	60. 59 Nurture

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Eustace Chapuys, Mary Tudor  
_AN: This is dedicated to SSLE who a long time ago asked me to do a Mary/Chapuys oddment, she does a great job with the pairing, I however can't bring myself to write the couple, or at least I could never write the couple well. He's too much of a daddy figure for me, so I feel a bit like _Alejandro_, that works for Lady Gaga, but I am alas, not her.

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_

Prompt #59: Nurture

The candle had burned low when the lady came for him. Eustace Chapuys, Ambassador of Spain, was surprised to find one of the Princess Mary's Ladies in Waiting bidding him to come with her at the late hour.

Outside of the Princess' chambers he paused, through the heavy oaken door he could hear soft crying. Eustace felt the sob constrict this heart. He hated for a woman to cry, he could not bear the sorrow.

"She has been crying for some time now – since she visited the Queen. She has not stopped, has not taken anything, and refused our offers to fetch someone – not her father the King, the Queen his wife her new mother, not even a priest. She only wanted to see you." Eustace studied the Lady, her blue eyes filled with worry.

"You are young," he said simply, she did not know all the reasons the Princess had to cry. They entered Mary's chambers.

"Ambassador Chapuys, your Majesty."

"Leave us – all of you." Mary managed. She was curled on her bed, still dressed in the gown she had wore that day, farthingale sticking up awkwardly as she lay on the bed. Eustace, at a loss, remained by the door, his heart aching. Chapuys was a strong man, he could withstand many thing, give him beatings, give him anything – anything but a woman weeping. That he could not endure.

"Your highness, pray, what is the matter? What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Everything! Everything Is the matter!" Mary exclaimed. "Oh, Tío Chappy, yo no se; yo no se." her childhood nickname for him. She might not know but he suddenly understood. The weight of the world on her shoulders had finally taken its toll. No longer giving a cent for propriety Chapuys crossed the room and took Mary up in his massive arms. He sat on the bed and rocked her. She began to cry anew although no tears would come Eustace stroked her back murmuring soft words in Castilian.

"Oh Tío Chappy, Tío Chappy" she hiccupped. In her eyes he could see not only her sadness but her mother's God rest her soul, gone too soon from her little girl.

"There, there mi hija, Tío Chapuys está aquí." She needed not tell him what ailed her, he knew. She missed her mother, that sorrow had been her constant companion for years. Her father made things no better, replacing his wives as often as his shoes, this last Queen no older than his eldest daughter and not half as sensible. They called the love of a woman fickle but the love the king had for his daughter was twenty times more so. It had to be hard living constantly wondering if our father, your own father truly loved you or if it was his mood.

Mary suffered under the pressure she placed upon herself to up hold the memory of her mother. Mary remembered her mother as a Saint. She could never live up to the memory she had of Katherine of Aragon – never be a good enough Catholic, a good enough student, a worthy daughter. But the truth was Catalina de Aragón could not live up to Mary's standards. It was costing her, costing her dearly. Costing her her happiness, it had cost her true love. Philip of Bavaria, even if the King had not sent him away after he divorced Cromwell's German heretic Mary had confessed to him that she would not have married him, for she felt that her mother would have wished her to make a Spanish match. And perhaps if the choice was between a Frenchman and a Spaniard she would, but truly Chapuys felt in his bones that Katherine only ever wanted her daughter to be happy. Happy, he just wanted the Princess to be happy, but he did not know if she ever would be. And that thought brought tears to his eyes.

Eustace Chapuys was many things – a lawyer, an Ambassador, a Spaniard, and a Man. But above all he was a father. He loved Mary as deeply as his own children and his heart bleed that he could not help her. He could not take her pain away, but as he dropped a kiss atop her dark head and rocked her he knew that he could sooth her.


	61. 60 Oblivious

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen  
_AN: As a refresher the League consists of Katherine of Aragon, Claude of France, Joan Larke; Wolsey's Non-canonical wife, Alice Middleton More; Sir Thomas More's wife, Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell; Thomas Cromwell's wife, and Isabella of Portugal; Wife of Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor.

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_

Prompt #60: Oblivious

"You mean he won't notice?" Isabella of Portugal asked looking around the circle at the faces of the wives of some of the most important people in the world. They were all telling her the same thing; they  truly ruled the world, their husbands – Kings, Cardinals, Lawyers – were mere puppets. She could not believe it and yet….

"_If I favor one idea or protest another 'Enry usually does the opposite. When Charles married you I protested against the grievous slight, the King not only congratulated my nephew but invited you to court." Katherine of Aragon, Queen of England and Isabella's aunt said proudly._

"_Francis is so occupied with his whores and mistresses that he leaves all of the work to his secretaries – who either defer to me or are easily duped. Goddamn Charles if he is ever unfaithful, but should you ever need a good secretary – let me know." Queen Claude of France spoke with such humor on such a bitter topic; it pained Isabella slightly to hear it._

"_I withhold sex." Joan Larke, mistress – wife of his Eminence Cardinal Thomas Wolsey said brightly, her eyes and smile almost too sweet to say such things. "After a night or two without he usually begins to rethink his actions…"_

"_Thomas always practices his arguments with me before he gives them at court, under the guise of strengthening them I try to tear them down." Alice More, wife of the great Lawyer said. "Though sometimes my plans backfire, in truth I've edified as many arguments as I've ended." She spoke sadly and Isabella wondered which of Sir Thomas More's arguments and convictions she mistakenly strengthened._

"_When I married my Thomas we couldn't afford anything but pure honesty, we were too poor to play games." Elizabeth Cromwell said with a laugh, "If I thought he was being stupid I'd say so; "Thomas, Love, you're being an idiot." He thought it was refreshing, keeps his head from swellin' too big I've gotta say." Mrs. Secretary continued, "If you're lucky Charles will love you enough to allow you to be honest." The older women all agreed._

"You mean he won't notice?" Katherine repeated in a mocking tone, Joan and Bess threw their heads back and laughed loud and long. Alice patted her hand as if to say, _Oh, you poor, naive girl._

"Cheri, if you find a technique that works he'll be completely oblivious!" Claude exclaimed with a smile.


	62. 61 Obvious

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon  
_AN (Another one): I am part of an RPG called The Tudor Era, it's an AU in which the Pope ruled in favor of Henry at Blackfriars and his marriage to Katherine is annulled. That however isn't the most notable departure from canon. On this forum Thomas Cromwell (me) and Sir Thomas More (Nor) are the original "Men in Black", saving the world from rapist scum and those who would deny rights to women. They're feminist besties basically. Also the forum features some fabulous TomKat provided by the lovely Nor and Doc (as KoA). This piece is _inspired_ by some of the situations on Era, particularly how adamant Katherine is that her relationship with Thomas must be kept on the DL.

* * *

_

Prompt #61: Obvious

"We… _I_…" Katherine of Aragon corrected herself after a sidelong glance from Sir Thomas More, "Wanted to keep our relationship a secret – we… _I _still wish to keep it from common knowledge, but you and Mistress Cromwell are such friends of ours that we – _Thomas_ – did not want to keep this from you any longer." Thomas and Elizabeth Cromwell shared a look before Cromwell cleared his throat and Elizabeth smiled, her husband was the most diplomatic person she'd ever met.

"We had no idea." He said without flaw. "You have kept your relationship from us all." The Dowager Princess smiled. Thomas and Elizabeth kept control of their laughter until they lay in bed together that night.

"And she _believed_ you!" Elizabeth shrieked with giggles. "Thomas, you are a better liar than I ever thought! She thinks her love from Sir Thomas was a secret! I have eyes in my head! I tell you that she was not subtle." Thomas chuckled as well, playing with his wife's hair.

"She believes what she wishes, that is her way and it is not as if she can see how ridiculous she was."

"True, she might think she is discreet when the rest of the hall can see how she hangs on his every word with a longing gaze."

"Or how she gravitates to his side the moment one of them enters the room." Thomas added.

"That knowing smile and blush that creeps up on her when you know she's remembering _other _times."

"Elizabeth, I have walked in on them in bed together, but because I did not see her face she thinks I did not know it was her! As if any other woman at court has More's attention – or that much hair." The wedded couple laughed.

"They're fooling no one," Elizabeth giggled, "they are so utterly obvious to everyone around them but themselves!"


	63. 62 Of Clay

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Alice Middleton More, Margaret More Roper, some implied Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

* * *

Prompt #62: Of Clay

"_We all have feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, [we] love them all the more it may be for that reasons." ~ Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband_

Mother Alice looked at me for a full moment.

"You think I loved your father because he was perfect?" she asked, a bit of a laugh in her throat. "Margaret, your father was a good man, but no saint. He was as pigheaded and proud as a man could be. But I loved him anyway – I still love him. Even though he was always right, even when he never listened to me. Never asked for help, never read directions." I simply look at her, my father is dead, why harp on his flaws now?

"And do you think I am perfect?" She threw her head back and laughed. "Your father used to call me Xanthippe he way other husbands call their wife sweetheart. I am a shrew, ill tempered and sharp tongued. I am not perfect and yet for twenty four years your father loved me and I loved him. For twenty four years we were far from perfect but we were happy. We all have feet of clay Margaret." Alice takes my hand and holds my gaze. She is not my real mother but she raised me like her own and I love her. When she advises me as she does it is easy to forget she did not birth me.

"You worry that Ambassador Chapuys loves you and you worry about your imperfections and I tell you, Stop. If he loves your imperfections but because of them."She kisses my hand. "Marry him Meg. You are not perfect." She smiles, "But neither is he."

* * *

_AN: Vocabulary lesson. Xanthippe was the wife of Socrates who has become almost a mythical figure for being ill tempered and shrewish. Feet of Clay is a biblical reference to the book of Daniel, it refers to an unseen flaw or weakness._

_Please forgive my delay in posting, I've been attacked by corn. I swear I even see it in my sleep.  
_


	64. 63 Out of the Blue

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. I am also not a Musical Genius. _Someday Out of the Blue_ is by Elton John and the movie _The Road to El Dorado. _  
Pairing: Edward Seymour/ Anne Stanhope  
_For Kate. She knows why.

* * *

_

Prompt #63: Out of the Blue

Edward Seymour shut his office door, leaning against it heavy with exhaustion. The clock in the square chimed the hour, that time when it would be argued; was it very late at night or very early morning. For his part the Earl of Hertford didn't care if it was early or late, it was well after the time most of the court was in bed. But Lord Hertford was not most at court. When the court played he planned, when they wined and dined he worked and drafted. Some had a passion for passion; he had a lust for power. He rubbed his eyes, once he had his family firmly established then he could rest easy, for now rest was simply a biological function. Jane's gift of a son had gone a long way in establishing the Seymour name but with her death left their position venerable. There was nothing more important than this. Heading for his chambers to garner his required eight hours of rest a figure in the moonlight caught his attention.

She shown with celestial beauty as the pale light filtered through the windows and bathed her in its glow. Her fair skin seemed nearly unreal and her grey eyes glittered as she looked up through the window and smiled. Her figure light and curvaceous and very pleasing was clothed in a slate colored dress. One Edward Seymour recognized. Diana's nymph was actually his wife, Anne Stanhope Seymour. What she was doing wondering about the corridor at this hour he did not know and he knew all too well, she'd made it clear enough. He no longer amused her, and if he did not keep her entertained she would find her entertainment elsewhere. She seemed to have found it here, he chose not to note the chamber, he did not want to know.

It was strange for in that moment he was able to believe that she was not visiting the courtier down the hall but himself. That things were how they once were. In the moonlight he was able to indulge in the memories. He'd not wanted to marry again, to never love, never feel the pain that his first wife had wrought on him with his own father. When she ripped his heart out he'd thought it best to not mend it, if he had no feelings he'd never feel pain. The plan worked well until he met Anne Stanhope, rich, beautiful, shrewd and quick Anne Stanhope. She ran circles around his arguments and stole what was left of his heart with one smile and a flash of her sea grey eyes. When he proposed he'd thought of their union as an alliance and nothing more. He needed a wife to run his house, he needed money, and she could benefit from the additions of what few titles his family had and their favor at the court. Love had not been factored into the equation but it had soon become its result. And once upon a time he was sure she loved him as well.

They had honeymooned in France when he'd been sent there for diplomatic purposes. They'd had time for one another then and they made the best of it. The fields around the palace were beautiful in the summer and a wonderful excuse to go for a daily ride with his new bride. As she stood in the moonlight he could almost smell the sun on sweet grass embracing them both. In that moment he could believe that they were still in love. He never stopped loving her but it seemed as if their romance was over. Once again his heart was broken as was his marriage and never would they mend. But in the moonlight he could believe.

She caught his eye, her grey gaze glittering. In that moment in the moonlight she felt it too.

_Some day out of the blue  
In a crowded street or a deserted square  
I'll turn and I'll see you  
As if our love were new  
Some day we can start again, some day soon_

_Here comes the night  
Here come the memories  
Lost in your arms  
Down in the foreign fields  
Not so long ago  
Seems like eternity  
The sweet afternoons  
Still capture me_

_Some day out of the blue  
In a crowded street or a deserted square  
I'll turn and I'll see you  
As if our love were new  
Some day we can start again, some day soon_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us  
We had it all and watched it slip away  
Where are we now  
Not where we want to be  
Those hot afternoons  
Still follow me_

_Some day out of the blue  
Maybe years from now  
Or tomorrow night  
I'll turn and I'll see you  
As if we always knew  
Some day we would live again, some day soon_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us_

_Here comes the night  
Here come the memories  
Lost in your arms  
Down in the foreign fields  
Not so long ago  
Seems like eternity  
The sweet afternoons  
Still capture me_

_Some day out of the blue  
Maybe years from now  
Or tomorrow night  
I'll turn and I'll see you  
As if we always knew  
Some day we would live again, some day soon_

_Some day out of the blue  
In a crowded street or a deserted square  
I'll turn and I'll see you  
As if our love were new  
Some day we can start again, some day soon_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us_

_I still believe  
I still put faith in us_

_(Fade)  
I still believe  
I still put faith in us_


	65. 64 Passion

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Edward Seymour/ Anne Stanhope  
_Lets see Bryan do this!

* * *

_

Prompt #64: Passion

Edward entered the chambers he shared with his wife cautiously. They'd had a fight, both saying things that they didn't mean – at least he'd not meant them. He hoped she didn't mean them either. But he wasn't sure. Her eyes - that snap of silver, they made him question everything. He'd retreated to his office afterward, hoping to find distraction but instead the fact he'd proven her point nagged him. Goddmanit he was…. She wasn't in the room. He paused, looking about anger igniting in the pit of his stomach. No one should have entered their room. No one was allowed so much as to look at his wife! She claimed he didn't act like much of a husband but she was still _his_. Possession flooded his veins. _She was his_ but she wasn't there right now. Gruffly he passed through their sitting room, slamming the doors about in a brutal over use of force. He was still a little mad. Okay, lie, he was furious – where was she?

A cool breeze against his angry flesh made him turn. The balcony doors were wide open and out on the patio, lounging against the railing was Anne. Without thinking he took a step towards her, then another. Her long brown hair was down, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. She wore nothing but a fur robe – one of his he noted idly, the V o f the neck deliciously low thanks to the too large cut. She was sucking on a peppermint stick. Dear God in Heaven, he loved peppermint – the fresh, sweet taste of it. She licked up the candy cane – slowly - savoring it, before taking the long straight part deep into her mouth, sucking, hollowing her cheeks against the shaft and moaning a soft mew of pleasure. She pulled the candy out with a pop and lapped up the rod again.

Edward swallowed. Hard. And blinked. A lot.

From under hooded eyes and through thick lashes Anne watched her husband. A satisfied smirk twisting her full pink lips. She had had enough. She was sick of what he tried to call a marriage. The cold cohabitation that had defined their time at court thus far. He'd not touched her since… too long. He was married to his work, but he was married to her first! It seemed as if he'd forgotten that. She was about to remind him. There was a throbbing ache in her womb she needed it filled – she needed him to fill it. _Now_.

"Do I not even warrant a hello now?" she asked him huskily.

"H-hi" how he managed to speak he didn't know, all of his blood had taken a U-turn and headed south.

She was licking…. Oh God wearing… when she moved it gaped…. Oh God. She took a step towards him, closing the space between them so that he could smell the peppermint on her warm breath.

She brought the candy to her lips once more, pink tongue poking out between them. Her eyes molten with desire. There was only so much a man could take.

He took her wrist and moved her hand from her mouth, crushing his lips down over hers. His other hand pulling her flush against him by the loose belt of his robe. It came open in his hands and he flung the candy across the courtyard in order to explore the newly exposed landscape of her body. One thumb swirled around her peaked nipple, his other hand stroking the silky smooth skin of her outer thigh and hip. He could feel her shiver and knew it wasn't from the cold.

Her hand slid into his hair and gripped there tightly keeping him under her control until she forced him to loose his. Her free hand rubbing over the front of his breeches, encouraging the bulge that grew and flexed under her fingers.

He whimpered a tiny bit as her fingers skirted along the top of his breeches and toyed with the laces in the front.

"What are you doing?" He hissed, voice gravel with lust. Her hand slid inside his breeches and he choked off a cry of pleasure when she wrapped her fingers around his straining length. She smirked a little, relishing her power.

"Clearly we've not spent enough time together if you don't recognize what I'm doing. I don't like being ignored, Edward." She pulled his head down and kissed him again, her hand sliding confidently along his cock, shredding his reasoning and inflaming his desire.

They were on the fucking balcony for Christ's sake! It was snowing! He tried to pull way; they should go inside or at the very least not be leaning against the railing high about the white covered garden for all to see. He tried to pull away but failed, she kept him in place with one hand. Albeit one strategically placed hand. He was panting steam, a white mist of desire rising with every labored breath.

"Anne." He growled. She wrapped one of her legs around his waist and pulled him close. He nearly died, his throbbing cock sliding over her wet core. His body was trembling all over, they both moaned at the slipper slide of contact. She tore the front of his shirt open in one fluid, desperate motion and flung it aside, the pieces falling into the court yard.

"Edward," Anne replied in a heady moan, sliding her hand back in to his hair and bringing him down into another passionate kiss. Her other hand returned to his member and she gave it a firm squeeze that sent him – and nearly her - over the edge both metaphorically and literally. Only her hand on his dick and his on her hips kept her from tumbling over the railing. His robe was not so lucky; it slipped from her slim shoulders and fluttered to the court yard, joining the pieces of his shirt, landing atop one of the statues in the garden below. Not that they noticed. They hardly noticed that Anne was dangerously close to following his robe over the rail. She tugged him closer with her legs. She kissed him and pulled his hair slightly, leveraging herself against him. He arched against her and growled.

"Mine!" He drug her flush against him, hooking one of her legs over his shoulder his other arm snaking around her waist. A snow flake fell against her breast and he glared at it, watching as it steamed, scorched by their heat. He was the only thing keeping her warm. He was losing control and his mind and he loved every minute of it.

She tugged his hair again, nails of her other hand scoring down his back, drawing blood in an act of passion.

He jerked her towards him with a snarl and several things happened at once.

His cock plunged into her in one fluid thrust. Stars burst behind her eyes. His teeth sank into where her neck met her shoulder; he bit deep and drew blood. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to bruise and the marble creaked under them.

Anne didn't have the breath to scream. He'd taken her hard and fast before, but never like this. He had just rammed balls deep inside of her, slamming so deep, hard, and fast she was amazed she hadn't split in two. He'd bitten her and was now lapping up the blood from her breast, holding her by her hair, bowing her back for better access to her neck, her body dangling upside down off the balcony, nothing but air all around her.

Shock, terror and absolute mind numbing pleasure.

She was on fire, hanging over a fucking precipice. He rolled his hips, withdrawing and the filling her to the hilt. He filled her to the brim, rubbing all the special secret places that made fireworks flash before her eyes. She was three thrusts from orgasm and they'd only just begun. Such was his power over her body.

She wanted more. Harder, faster, deeper. She spurred him on with her heel and clawed at his back. And he gave it to her. His pleasure was her pleasure and her pleasure his pleasure in a constant loop. It wouldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. She came once with a scream, nails leaving passion marks down his back. He didn't falter. Just changed angles and thrust deeper still.

Anne thought she might die from pleasure overload. It was a living thing, it was devouring her. Her vision was whiting out and he kept pounding forward – thrusting and kissing, stroking and biting. It felt like he wanted to crawl in side of her and share her skin. She couldn't cope with the pleasure. She bit down on his shoulder and tasted the fire in his blood. He was so hot. Steam filled the air. And still he did not relent. She felt her entire world shaking. There was a rushing sound in her ears, her vision was whiting out with more frequency.

He roared as he came, ripping another orgasm from her as she felt him explode deep within her womb, pouring his seed hot and fast into her. Filling her and then some. She couldn't even scream the pleasure was so intense … it wouldn't stop… she… OH GOD.

When Anne came to she was hanging upside down looking at the snow covered garden hundreds of feet below her.

She squeaked.

"Ju – Just ah a second." Edward panted from between her breasts. He scuttled backwards and gently pulled her upright. Stumbling backwards he found a wall for support and slid down it to sit on the balcony, limbs still too limp to remain upright for long. He remained sheathed deep inside but neither did a thing about it as she collapsed against him like a rag doll, as spent as he.

After a few moments of heavy breathing Anne was finally able to speak.

"Do you think," She asked breathlessly, "That maybe you'll be able to get away from the office more often next week?"

* * *

_You're welcome._


	66. 65 Pater

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Wolsey/ Joan Larke  
_Note: Pater is the Latin word for Father_

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Prompt #65: Pater

"Thomas, 'it' is a baby, not a thing." Joan said, annoyed, hand resting protectively on her slightly rounded five month stomach.

"What else should I call i-" Joan shot him a look, "the baby, when we don't know what the baby is?"

"I don't know, but it certainly won't be 'it'." Wolsey sighed and sat beside his wife, placing his large hand on her ever expanding bump, it was his favorite tactile sensation.

"Woolie." He finally offered, she snorted with no care for dignity.

"I think I like 'it' better." He though further.

"Bump" Joan's eyes grew as large as her stomach.

"Did you feel that?" she asked looking at her bump in amazement.

"Feel what?" he asked anxiously, was something wrong? There couldn't be anything wrong!

"The quickening! The baby moved!" Four hands pressed to her abdomen, but they felt nothing.

"Say it again."

"Bump," Thomas said bringing his lips very close to her stomach. "Come on, Bump, _sum ipse patrem te_, Come on – please… move for Daddy." Joan gasped, but he felt nothing. Dejected he removed his hands. She took his hand in hers and placed it firmly on her stomach, holding it there.

"You will feel Bump move soon enough Thomas, I promise you."

* * *

_sum ipse patrem te: I am your father_


	67. 66 Pearl

Oddments Reprise

* * *

Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Mary Tudor/ Philip of Bavaria or very begrudgingly Mary Tudor/Eustace Chapuys  
_AN: I say **begrudgingly** because, though I personally don't see Chapuys as anything more than a father figure for Mary, others like him in a more romantic role and since I do not use any proper names once may imagine whomever they wish as Mary's suitor.

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Prompt #66: Pearl

Once she was the Pearl of her father's world. Then he shut her back into the oyster shell. Out of sight, out of mind until he'd all but forgotten about her. Her shell was as hard as a rock, protecting the precious beauty inside from the mistreatments of the world. The oyster kept the rare beauty safe, getting harder and harder to crack with each passing year until eventually it was damned near impossible. No man dared to claim the pearl. The defenses were too thick, lips sealed too tightly, the muscular tongue and briny spray too much work.

Then He came along. With the patience and smile to wear down the hard outer shell, a mind knife – sharp to pry open the lips, and a tongue just as strong. He opened the oyster bringing the beauty, long forgotten, back into the world. Once again she was the pearl of the world, a pearl now sitting on her heart finger, a promise that never again would she be shut back into the oyster. She would be his Pearl for all eternity.


	68. 67 People

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing. Nor am I a Broadway star, 'People Will Say We're in Love' is from the Musical OKLAHOMA!  
Pairing: William Parr/Alexandria Knightly  
_Note: Another fic inspired by the Tudor Era (RPG). The wonderful Kate plays William Parr and I play Alexandria Knightly, and OFC. She is Edward Seymour's first cousin (mother's side) and his ward after the death of her parents. Because Edward is a bit of a hard ass no one knew he had any family so when Alexandria (Dria) shows up and gives him a hug people, including Will, assume they are having a torrid affair. Will and Dria's subsequent relationship unravels like a Shakespearean Comedy – full of misunderstandings and absurd obstacles.

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Prompt #67: People Will Say We're In Love

Alexandria Knightly looked about the ballroom; the hiss of voices surrounding her was like the din of waves on the ocean. People were looking at her - but instead of the scorn that went with being considered a mistress it was with interest. People watched her arguments with William Parr as if they were watching the King's tennis match. Then they would turn to one another and the ssoundss of gossip would rustle around her. It was enough to drive a woman mad. Madder than Will Parr already drove her. Handsome, insufferable man. The whispers grew louder as she crossed the ballroom; they seemed as if they would drown out the music. Dria looked up. William was crossing the room to her, cutting a fine figure in his charcoal grey velvet doublet with deep navy stitching. His sea green blue eyes twinkled at her and his lips were curled in that smile he found so charming. He had a bit of wit he wished to break upon her; she would send him halting off. However she was not inclined to duel before an audience. The court gossips – vultures always looking for new prey – would not find fresh meat with her. They met in front of the balcony, the doors open to cool the heated ballroom – providing some fresh air for the dancing couples. It smelled of rain – clean, sweet, and chilly. He looked her over once and spoke with a theatrical smirk.

"My dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?"

"Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signor Benedict?" She replied, casting a mean eye about at the Ladies in Waiting who were all waiting for something to happen. "When you're around, even Lady Courtesy becomes Lady Disdain."

"Then Courtesy is a turncoat." Parr replied, his head turning to recite his line more to his audience but his chest remained facing her, one foot leaning into her space. Further whispers from the groundlings. Dria's eyes flashed at them and she turned on her heel, the velvet of her deep azure gown snapping behind her. She headed for the balcony, pausing only to look over her shoulder at Parr.

"I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedict. Nobody marks you." She raised one eyebrow in challenge and then disappeared into the cool spring night. She could hear him call the victory for himself, calling that Lady Disdain had turned to Lady Cowardice in his presence.

Dria leaned forward her elbows on the marble banister of the balcony, her arms half crossed in front of her as she looked up at the stars, full moon peeking through the clouds. She shivered; it was colder than she thought, but too beautiful to return inside. The white fur that trimmed the top of her dress provided her with some warmth but not enough.

She could feel him before he spoke, sandalwood and balsam enveloping her as his warm arm slipped around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest, cheek resting against hers. They remained like that for a long moment, simply enjoying the early spring evening, the stars and each other. Hidden in a dark corner of the balcony, far from the crowds, there was no one else in the world but them two. After a time he turned his head slightly kissing her cheek, asking softly,

"Are you all right tonight, Love? Usually you do not forfeit so easily."

"At least you recognize that I let you win." She replied flatly. The dull tone in what should have been a sparkling statement made him turn her in his arms so that he could peer down into her lovely heart-shaped face. He recognized the look in her large hazel eyes. He'd seen it before.

"Someone has said something, haven't they." It wasn't a question. Court gossips were notorious, and for some reason had thought they found an easy target in Alexandria. When they had first met it was 'common knowledge' that she was Edward Seymour's mistress, all based off of one hug. Seymour was in truth her first cousin and guardian but it had taken a hideously long time for that to be known or believed. Even after it was shown their familial connection people believed that she was his little piece on the side. It was not until Anne Stanhope, Edward's wife grew large with child and his devotion to her became more evident did people finally let that theory die.

The rumor had soured their first meeting, and she had hated him for a good long time. He had been one of those people to believe the rumor and made her life miserable. He regretted that now – it hurt him to think that he had hurt her. She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Not to my face, no." She said softly, "But I can hear it, it follows me. You know they have me sleeping with everyone from Bryan to you to John Steeple?" He tensioned unable to decide whom he hated more – Francis Bryan or John Steeple. Francis Bryan - the pirate sleeping with his sister or John Steeple - the stable-hand who had been charged with Dria's protection and then left her stranded in the woods.

"Over my dead body." He growled, arm tightening around her waist slightly as if the other men were around waiting in line for her. She ran her hands along his strong arms, velvet rippling under her fair fingers.

"But mainly they talk about me and you. They seem to think our constant sparing means something more than a mutual dislike. That the lady doth protest too much." He smirked down at her.

"And she does."

"And so does he." She replied, smirking up at him as well. He pushed a wayward chocolate lock of hair behind her ear.

"Why does it bother you, Dria? Don't you love me?" She looked away and for a moment he felt as if he died.

"It's not that William," She looked back at him and cupped his cheek in her hand and kissed him softly. "I love you. Most ardently. It is just that I have yet to spend a day at court where I did not 'belong' to someone. My entire existence here has been defined by whomever people think I am sleeping with. I want to be known for who I am not who I am with. As much as I love you I want to be my own person." He breathed a sigh of relief. She did love him. But he frowned all the same.

"I never wanted to take your identity, Alexandria; I am quite fond of my Lady Disdain." She gave him a small smile.

"I know that Will, and I am very partial to Signor Benedict as well. That being said it is not because you've actively sought to strip me of my status as an individual but it's as if the court can sense that you are stuck on me and suddenly I am not myself but your property."

"Me stuck on you?" He scoffed playfully, "Oh no my dear, you are stuck on me." He then turned serious. "You are not my property, _sed feminam, quam amo_." She liked it when he spoke to her in Latin, it was their special thing. But she stepped out of his arms anyway, immediately feeling chilled. She rubbed her arms and he took a step forward, following her, his arms ready to take her in again. She held up a fair hand.

"Typically I would say that it would not matter what the others think, so long as we are happy, however I don't feel like I have even the leverage for that. I am sorry William." She looked down at her slippers.

Parr leaned against the palace, his legs unable to support him. She couldn't possibly be saying…

"You mean to tell me that after all that we went through - Edward, arguing, the waiting – that you wish to end it – end us." There was such a broken quality to his voice that Alexandria's head snapped up, her eyes wide, a small gasp making its way through her parted lips.

"No! Not at all William." She crossed the balcony again, touching his face softly. "I love you, _Meis stulum virum _I do not think death could end that. However we must find a way to prove what they say is quite untrue." She paused, that might be the hardest thing for him. He was very much like Edward in some ways. He was a protector, once you entered in to his life, the small circle of people he cared about, he would move mountains to see you safe and sound and cared for. The row he kicked up with Francis Bryan when he courted Katherine was a part of lore now. And in a very Edward – esqe moment he threw John Steeple into a wall when he returned from a ride without Alexandria.

She batted his nose with a fair finger, making him smile once again.

"The success of this charade depends on a list of 'don'ts' for you. When we are at home and it is just us you may do what you wish with me," She told him, smiling wickedly thinking of the small home they had made together in her chambers, where they were together without the prying eyes of the world – where they could whatever they liked with no one to judge.

"However in public…" She paused, "Don't throw bouquets at me, Don't please my folks too much…" Will threw his head back and laughed.

"You know full well that Edward hates my guts." She pressed a finger to his lips.

"Don't laugh at my jokes too much." She quirked her brow at him, he simply took her wrist and placed a kiss on every finger of her hand, tongue slipping out as he pressed a kiss to her palm. Her voice hitched at the sexual current that flowed between them. "People will say we're in love!" She warned him. He looked down at her with the stars in his eyes; she knew that her gaze held the same expression. That would be another challenge, keeping their feelings from their eyes. Even when they argued one could see the esteem for the other in their eyes.

"Don't sigh and gaze at me, your sighs are so like mine, your eyes mustn't glow like mine. Sweetheart they're suspecting things - People will say we're in love."

"Some people claim that you are to blame as much as I." He told her softly. "Don't praise my charm too much."

"What charm?" She asked him, cocking a brow. Inside a Vulta struck up and Will slipped the hand he was holding into the crook of his arm, covering her chilled, fair fingers with his own warm, rough hand. He led her away from the wall, where they might dance with ease.

"Don't take my arm too much, don't keep your hand in mine - your hand feels so grand in mine." She kissed the back of his hand in that unconventional way of theirs that defined their relationship. He bowed.

"People will say we're in love!" She giggled falling into step with the dance.

The first lift came and sent her soaring, he liked to see how high he could lift her and she liked the weightless feeling. Looking down, watching the moon in his eyes and the shadows on the contours of his handsome features. He set her down on her feet and made her spin in a move that wasn't in the dance but his own repertoire. He spun her away and then pulled her back into his chest. She remembered another dance on this balcony but as she looked up at him she knew that this evening would not end the way the last did.

"Don't dance all night with me," He whispered, bringing his lips a breath from hers. "Till the stars fade from above. They'll see it's alright with me." He kissed her, gently. Pulling away a hair.

"People will say we're in love."

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_Brownie points if you can guess which of the Bard's plays I reference in the dialogue. Kate – no cheating._

_sed feminam, quam amo: But the woman, who I love._

_Meis stulum virum: My foolish man_


	69. 68 Persephone

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell  
_AN: I am trying my hand at a parable.

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Prompt #68: Persephone

Stories are rarely retold truthfully; the actual events that transpired are often lost, altered, or stretched until only a grain of truth remains in a myth or legend. The reasons for the mutations are varied, ignorance and incompetence often strike. But sometimes, sometimes facts are twisted, facts are omitted, the story changes for a more sinister reason.

The Greeks have a reason for winter, a story that they tell; a tale of Hades and Persephone and six ruby red seeds. The tale told is one of violence. Pluto in a fit of lust for the young Goddess of Spring seizes her, tricks her, and forces her to be his bride, to remain in hell with him forever. The pomegranate, six sweet seeds in exchange for bitter winter.

But what if the story was mere myth, a story told in malice? What if Persephone chose to go, what if she loved him, him the dark God, him the being, not the persona? Would the world think of dark Hades the same way? What of fair Persephone?


	70. 69 Pomegranate

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Boleyn/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #69: Pomegranate

Boleyn looked down at the Pomegranate with a burning hunger. He'd craved the sweet fruit in his youth but never had a chance to taste it, but now he did and he indulged in the ruby red fruit. It was opened in his hand, pink interior inviting his tongue, sweet aroma filling his senses and he dipped his head and lapped at the inner sweetness.

It took some time but eventually his tongue brought forth the sweet juices he craved, he worked his lips over the fruit slowly, savoring the flavor, letting the nectar drip down his chin undisturbed. He was too lost in the meal to bother with the juices covering his face. There was one particularly hard seed, he flicked it with his tongue and sucked it – working over it slowly with his lips, it would produce the sweetest of all tastes he knew and the victory would be best slow.

He looked up and met his wife's eye; he took a long lap from the centre of the fruit with his tongue, his eyes never leaving hers. The Pomegranate was her badge, the falcon his. Icons were popping up all about court depicting a Falcon eating a Spanish Pomegranate. He was proving this to be most certainly true. He closed his eyes and returned to savoring the meal, his fingers parting the fruit slightly, opening it more to his tongue.

The stubborn seed remained strong, unmoved, but only for a short time. It soon surrendered its juices sweet and fast against his tongue.


	71. 70 Power

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen

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Prompt #70: Power

Elizabeth Cromwell followed behind Joan Larke with some trepidation. The young woman was all for adventuring but this part of the castle was a far cry from climbing trees. It was dark, cramped, and deep underground, like the road to hell itself. Joan, however, did not have these qualms as she carried a candle in one hand, her skirt in the other and fairly skipped down the spiral staircase.

"Joan," Beth asked nervously, "Where are we going – what are we doing?" Joan looked over her shoulder at her friend, her round face split into a wide smile.

"I am simply welcoming you to court!" She said brightly. At the foot of the stairs she turned down a hall.

"You did that already," Liz protested, "This seems a little out of the way to have a private moment with Thomas." When the Cromwells arrived at court Joan had taken Elizabeth around and shown her every spot suitable for a 'moment of private' for her and her husband. Behind tapestries, on balconies, closets, every nook and cranny of the palace that was space for two had been pointed out. All of the places had undergone personal testing, Liz was sure. Joan paused outside a door, half hidden by a tapestry, her hand resting on the handle she spoke,

"Oh, that was some useful information, but it's not the welcome party." She threw open the door. Inside was a small plush room with two figures seated inside. Lady Alice More, the wife of Sir Thomas More, the great humanist and friend of the King and

"Your Majesty." Elizabeth curtsied deeply in front of her Queen. Katherine of Aragon smiled down at her.

"Welcome to the League, Elizabeth." Elizabeth stood.

"League?"

"The League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen." Alice More said from behind her. "A league of the most powerful women in Christendom." Elizabeth looked around. The King's wife, The Lawyer's wife, and the Cardinal's wife all looking at her. She was only the wife of a secretary, she had no political clout.

"I have no power." She said. The women around her laughed. They laughed hard and long.

"Don't give me that." Joan said, taking her seat to the left of Queen Katherine. "You have Thomas wrapped around your little finger." She patted a space beside her, giving Elizabeth a look that said 'sit'. Beth blushed slightly, it was true that Thomas was devoted to her – she was equally devoted to him. However at court to be uxorious seemed to be a bad thing.

"Don't blush," Alice said, "its sweet."

"And useful." Katherine added. "It is true Mistress Cromwell, that on your own you do not have any power, however you are married to a man with a great deal of it. That is the case of all of us here. Our husbands hold the government positions, but we – we hold the power."

"A man needs his wife," Katherine continued, "We have power because we are the mother of their children; we are the arms that hold them when they cry and tend them when they are sick."

"We have power because we listen to their arguments and help them in their work." Alice furthered, "We support their decisions and help them decide."

"We have power because we have boobs." Joan added.


	72. 71 Prejudice

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Francis Bryan/Kate Parr (Discussed), Some William Parr/ Alexandria Knightly  
_Note: Some of this is taken from the Tudor Era, especially the characterizations Of Katherine Parr, William Parr, and Edward Seymour, those are the brilliant ideas of Kate, aka Pandora. I don't know why I keep using Era things, I guess it's because right now they all fit! Please see the prompt People Will Say for an explanation on Alexandria.  


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Prompt #71: Prejudice

"Marry Kate? Marry Kate!" William Parr slammed his chamber door and threw his hands in the air. "Marry Kate." He said it again, still unable to believe what he'd heard – what he'd seen. Francis Bryan, Black Pope, Vicar of Hell, all around man-whore had just come and asked for Kate's hand in marriage. Like a gentleman no less!

"William?" Dria called from down the hall. Since Edward had relented in his threat of instantaneous death should he so much as look at Alexandria again Will and Dria had taken advantage of their new found freedoms. Because Will had the bigger chambers with more rooms and fewer gossip hungry Ladies – in – Waiting as neighbors they had moved in together there, more or less. They had been reading together in the closet – a small oaken room that was for the most privet of matters, the fireplace and wing-backed chairs making it the coziest room. And then that knock and Francis Bryan. Will shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunching with tension as he returned to his girlfriend.

Dria took one look at him and closed her book.

"What happened out there, it sounded like a war." Will raked a hand through his hair.

"It sort of was one." He said. "Francis Bryan – the Black fucking Pope Bryan – just came to inquire after Kate as if she were some feather he'd like to put in his cap." Will shoved his hand in his pocket again and began to pace. He was getting angrier and angrier with each step, each thought.

"How dare he?" He snapped. "How dare he! Kate isn't some chit – some little harlot to play games with! The man lays anything with an orifice. I will not let him get his hooks into Kate, I won't let him break her heart! The man is a libertine and a rake. He wouldn't know fidelity if it bit him on the ass. He seduces women and then leaves them cold, with only pretty words to remember him by. So what if he's charming he has no morals." He ran his hand through his hair again, pausing and looking at Dria for a moment before shaking his head.

"And Kate! She is usually so sensible – the responsible one! The smart one. How could she fall for such utter tripe? She had to know that Bryan would only bed her and go, she should know that he is bad news."

Alexandria watched as Will paced back and forth, running his hands through his hair and ranting in a very… familiar way.

Dria suddenly realized where she recognized the gesture from. William was channeling Edward. This was the EXACT same conversation he had had with her when he had told her that she was no longer allowed to see William.

In fact if she remembered correctly Edward had called WILL a 'Mini-Bryan'. She laughed. It bubbled forth from her in a wild arpeggio of irony. She laughed and she laughed.

"Oh William! You sound just exactly like Edward - you even look a bit like him too when you run your hands through your hair. He said those exact same things about YOU!" Will stopped mid stride and looked at her, his mouth opening and closing. Which was he more upset about – being told he looked like Edward Seymour or being compared to the Bastard Francis Bryan?

"I am nothing like your cousin – and I think he would be as insulted as I am that you think so! And I am certainly NOTHING like Bryan." He spat the name.

"Oh really? How would Edward get that idea then? Perhaps it was how you introduced yourself to him in the first place – through his wife?" She arched her brow at him, they had resolved that little issue time ago but that did not keep her from bring it up now to help prove her point.

"I was just being…stupid." William protested. "That's not who I am – you know that Dri."

"I do _now_ – but that doesn't mean that Edward knew it then." She countered, watching as his shoulders grew more and more tense. Perhaps comparing him to Bryan had been harsh but it was what Edward had said when he sat her down and explained how she was not allowed to see, speak, or think of him. "Granted, Sir Francis has more of a reputation than you do, I've heard it said that he has more lovers than fingers in every country in the world, save the lands across the sea – but there is only safe because he has not crossed the ocean yet. But it is also said that he doesn't play games, he's never used false words to bed a woman. He tells them the truth. And as far as I know he has never said the word 'marriage' in his life. Yet here he was – asking you for an audience, discussing dowry, going through all the socially appropriate measures that apply to a marriage. That is a lot of work, especially if his only intent is to love and leave your sister."

Will ran his hands through his hair again, he was getting a headache, she could see it in his eyes. He was the head of his family; he was learning to take that role seriously. He would protect his sister. He would stress himself to death over this.

"Come here." She said, gesturing to her feet, she made him sit, back resting against her legs as she sat in the chair. Gently she started at the top of his head and began to work slowly down his scalp, fingers drawing firm, tight circles as she tried to ease his tensions.

"I've never spoken to Francis Bryan. I cannot speak for him or for Kate. But I do know one thing.

That morning after ... the balcony..." She colored a little at the memory of her own stupidity and her own happiness - that night had not been a total loss, she'd realized how dear he was to her.

"That morning Edward sat me down, he paced and paced and ran his hands through his hair but eventually he told me this. He told me that you were a Mini-Bryan. That you played with women's affections and played them false. That you were a rake and a libertine and I should stay as far away from you as possible. I couldn't trust a thing you said and it didn't matter how attractive I found you you were bad news.

He told me that no matter what you said you didn't care for me, didn't love me, it was all a ploy to get me in your bed..." William tensed at her words but melted under her fingers, his head falling forward as she rubbed his shoulders.

She had a point. Will knew this, but he fought it. Francis Bryan and Kate. Francis Bryan his brother – in – law? It made his skin crawl.

"But if I'm right, and I don't try to stop this – if he hurts her, I'll never forgive myself."

"Again, that's what Edward said. And if I remember correctly he sat you down and explained all the things he'd do to you if you hurt me. But truly it hurt me more to have you far from me than you could ever do. Who knows your interfering might hurt them both more than allowing them to try it - to follow their hearts. As far as anyone knows this is the first time Bryan has said the word 'marry'. That has to mean something."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him from behind.

"And if he hurts her after I spoke in his favor, it is not you he will have to fear. If he makes me a liar I will eat his heart in the Marketplace." He wrapped his arms around hers and leaned his temple to her.

"So you're saying if I don't tell Bryan where Kate is, that makes me more stiff-necked than your cousin. I can't do that." Dria giggled.

"I certainly don't want you to have a stiff... neck." She purred in his ear. He turned his head and gave her a lingering kiss, soft, sweet but too passionate to be pure.

"How did I get lucky enough to have you?" he asked sincerely.

"However the hell I got lucky enough to have you William Parr." She replied rubbing her nose with his. She kissed him again before standing and pulling him up.

"I don't know what you did to deserve me but I do know that if you help Bryan and your sister - it'll at least look like you did something..." She squeezed his hands before leading him to the door.

"Now, go talk to him - tell him." She patted his butt, "You do that quickly and I'll make it worth your time."

Will laughed. "All right, all right!" He grinned, stealing a quick kiss before walking out the door.


	73. 72 Pride

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Eustace Chapuys/ Margaret More Roper

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Prompt #72: Pride

Eustace paces behind me as I dab the cut over Henry's eye with a damp rag, his hands are behind his back. It's his 'intimidating' posture. Henry is made uneasy by his step-father's pacing – as he should be. Starting a fight like that!

"I do not care, Henry William Roper, what he said, you should not have started that fight young man." I turn to Eustace so that we might agree. He pauses and faces Henry, his face its usual serious expression.

"Your mother is right, Henry, fighting does not solve anything… but that was a damn fine right hook."

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_AN: EUSTACE – Not helping!_


	74. 73 Prince

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #73: Prince

Princesses marry princes. It was the first thing young royals learned. God is great, be good, you will be Queen. Katherine had always been an outstanding student; she took her lessons to heart. She married her prince. She was Queen. She was going to live happily ever after.

Reality was a bitch named Anne Boleyn. A scheming harlot after her crown – her prince – her happily ever after. Katherine had done everything right – her whole life and yet here is this Beelzebubian beauty ruining her life. What had she done to deserve this unhappy ending?

In the quiet of midnight the answer came to her with two soulful brown eyes and a soft soft smile. Thomas. Deep down Katherine knew how Anne Boleyn could happen to her. How her world – her fairytale could fracture.

Not a prince. Not a prince's younger brother. Sir Thomas More was a lowly statesman. She should not love him. But… she did. Princesses married princes, but that was not where her heart lay.


	75. 74 Queasy

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Edward Seymour/ Anne Stanhope  
_AN: Greetings from sunny Florida! And a Happy 2011! Sorry for the delay in updating, but such is the life of a college student, four finals and three papers later I have nothing to do but enjoy the ocean rowing and try to get some writing in. Fun fact, today at home it was 0 degrees with wind chill; here in Tampa it was roughly 65 and sunny. No wonder birds and old people fly south for the winter!

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Prompt #74: Queasy

For a moment Anne lay in bed and listened – trying to determine what had disturbed her beauty sleep. Quiet, all quiet… then the stomach turning spew of vomit from the next room. Anne pulled a face. Ew. But she rose in spite of herself, tucking her feet into Edward's leather slippers she wrapped the bed fur about her and set about finding whatever was sounding so damn gross.

She found Edward in his office, shirt soaked with sweat, his head in a chamber pot. He spat and groaned quietly, resting his head on his arm.

"Are you dying?" she asked bluntly. With effort Edward looked at her, his navy eyes blurry with fever.

"No." he shook his head, then stopped because it hurt too much. "No Annie, just feels like I am." Even sick he needled her.

"It can't be too bad, Eddie, you're still pissing me off." Edward groaned and looked mournfully back into the basin that now held his what was left of his dinner. There was a shade of green under his pallor and Anne braced herself for another round of illness.

"Why don't you just go away, Annie, let die in peace." He made another belching, wrenching sound and what little that did not come up the first time came up the second. Anne wrinkled her nose and gagged a little herself at the sight but she recovered quickly. Without a word she went to the sideboard and the pitcher of water atop it and wetted a cloth. She then gently pulled him from the bucket and wiped his face.

"No I won't leave you. You called me… that name. Understand, I must punish you. However while I have rules I also have standards." She told him softly, voice almost sweet as she washed his face and cooled his brow.

"It's not a fair fight to kick you when you are so incapacitated and yet you must be punished. My presence here annoys you and thus I remain. Consider yourself lucky, this is likely the mildest revenge you will ever receive for calling me…_ that_." He stared weakly at her as she carefully stroked his mustache.

"Wh-why?" He asked. Anne slopped the cloth down against the small tub.

"If you ever want to kiss me with that bottle-brush again you'll keep the chunks out of it." Anne said brusquely.

"Now come on, bed for you." She helped him to stand on wobbly legs and piloted him into the bedroom where she set about stripping him of his court clothes and wrapping him in a less than flattering, well-loved night shirt. Once upon a time it was his, then she discovered how comfortable it was and he'd not seen it since. Until now. He looked down at himself wearily and then back at his wife who was busying herself with one side of her large bed. She piled pillows up and placed a basin on the side table. He slipped between the sheets and openly stared as his wife who dropped a kiss on his forehead as she tucked the furs around him.

"What was that for?" He asked. Anne briskly rounded the bed – keeping her face from him so he couldn't confirm that she was blushing.

"Checking to see if you have a fever – which you do. I will send for Doctor Linacre in the morning so that I don't have to take care of you for longer than necessary." She plumped her pillow and rolled over, facing away from him. Edward watched her back quietly, until he coughed and hacked and ruined the moment. She slowly rolled over and looked at him.

"You're gross." She said flatly, but her cool hands slowly made their way up his heated breast, rubbing soothing circles across his broad chest. Fingers crept up his neck and softly traced the features of his handsome face, helping relax his tense muscles. Despite himself Edward felt his eyelids droop; he was feeling much better under her hands. Before he fell asleep – or woke up for Anne Stanhope Seymour tenderly caring for anyone was a dream – he took her hands in his and kissed her fingers.

"Thank you." He whispered. Anne was quiet for a moment, but before he could confirm that she was truly touched she said,

"Don't you dare puke on me."


	76. Quirk

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #75: Quirk

"Your Husband has truly been indispensable to me Mistress Cromwell." The King said with sincerity over dinner, "Though he is a layman there is no one I trust more with my Great Matter and I know his interviews will be carried out with great care and be most successful." Elizabeth Cromwell gave her husband a pretty smile and squeezed his large hand in her own before turning to her sovereign.

"I am glad he is of use to you, Thomas is diligent in all things," Henry's eyes flicked to the mark on her neck, brought, no doubt by a certain diligence earlier that evening. "But I do not understand; these interviews…" Thomas felt his hands begin to sweat, he had not mentioned the charge the King had given him; he had been preoccupied by _other things_ at the time of his wife's arrival…

"He has not told you? I have asked Mr. Cromwell to go to universities of prominence and inquire after a point of theology." Cromwell felt his wife's hand tighten slightly on his own.

"No, no he had yet to inform me of his impending journeys. I should perhaps ask you then, pray, when does he leave?" her words were spoken to the King but her eyes had turned to meet his. Thomas gulped a little, Adam's apple sliding beneath his collar. She was giving him 'the look'.

"Monday." In three days time. _Dear God, not the eyebrow, anything but that_. But alas she quirked it.

"Monday! When you kissed me hello you were kissing me good bye." Her voice was light but carried a barb. He sighed. The celebration was over; her wretched woolen nightgown would be making an appearance come bedtime. He was in trouble.


	77. Rare

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Dr. Linacre, Thomas Cromwell/Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell, Edward Seymour/ Anne Stanhope Seymour  
_AN: I do not believe in Valentine's Day, I believe that every day you should show the people you love how special they are to you. On that note I have a sort of strange gift for ya'll. More of an experiment really. Anyway, if you go to my blog, http:/ parrottgal. livejournal. com, I've posted part of an upcoming oddment, I'm trying something a little different, it's an audio file of me reading part of the fic. I hope it will help you hear a little bit of what I hear when I write these characters. If you like it I will read other fics at your request. I was always a fan of story time.

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_

Prompt #76: Rare

Doctor Thomas Linacre had a unique position at court, he rarely saw people who were not in extreme emotions. Others saw courtiers at work, at play; he saw members of the King's court on the worst or best day of their lives. This gave him an interesting perspective on things. People often marveled at the fact arctic, boorish Cromwell could be married to anyone, let alone the dazzling Elizabeth. The court saw a man who was too emotionally closed off to be a husband.

Dr. Linacre saw a man entirely devoted to his wife. A man who personally nursed his wife when she was ill. A man who did not sleep until his beloved was strong enough to sit up on her own. Dr. Linacre saw a woman who worried after her husband's health; one who made him stop and sleep, brought him food and made him eat. Elizabeth Cromwell was the only person in the world who could get her husband to see a doctor and more importantly adhere to his professional advice.

Amongst the court it was known the only man colder than Cromwell was Edward Seymour. He and his wife, Lady Anne hated each other, everyone knew it. Everyone except Thomas. All the rest were present when the Seymours traded insults, threw names – and plates at one another. Only he had been there when a pale, stricken Earl of Hartford cradled his wife after she fainted. Only he was there nine months later to witness the tender kisses Sir Edward gave his wife and twins after hours of hard labor. Hours only Linacre knew Edward spent alternating between prayers and pacing.

Dr. Linacre had a difficult job, often he delivered more bad than good news, but the rare moments he was a party to… the glimpses of man's soul he was privileged to witness, it made his job worth while.


	78. Return

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #77: Return

"I shall have thee in my arms or you will have me in thine, either way our reunion shall be sweet and soon. Yay, by the time you receivest this I may be with you and all my longings shall be moot." Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell read aloud from her husband's letter, his faithful correspondence was the only thing that made his absences bearable. Their son, Gregory brought about a pause in her reading. He was seated opposite her beside the fire, anxious to her his father's news, but not in the least bit pleased to hear of his father's longing. At thirteen he understood full well what that meant and he didn't want to hear about it, lest a mental image be conjured.

Mother laughed at her child, but complied, skipping the details of the kisses missed.

"Expect me home soon my loves, my wife, my son. Yours-"

"Yours faithfully and true. Thomas." Elizabeth nearly toppled her chair as she jumped at her husband's voice finishing the letter and not her own. She looked up and found him the door betwixt kitchen and Living room looking happy to be home and as handsome as ever.

"Thomas!" she exclaimed. Gregory rushed into his father's arms. He was a young man but in moments like this he was still her little boy. Father embraced son just as delighted to see him. He kissed his child's head and held him tight. Elizabeth watched the scene with a glad heart and mischievous smile. In that moment was not thirteen but three. To them, no matter how hard he fought, he would be their baby.

"How are you Gregory?" Thomas asked, stepping back to look over his son who'd grown so much in his absence.

"Very well Father, I have much joy at your safe arrival, how was your travel?" At this Thomas burst out laughing. Gregory tried so hard to be a man, his father couldn't help it but his efforts made him laugh. Thomas ruffled his son's thick dark hair, so much like his own.

"My travel was smooth my son and I am glad to be home." The formality did not last. "Gregory, if you bring in my saddlebag from the stable there is a surprise for you in it." The boy's face beamed, but he was torn between running like a child and behaving as an adult. "Go on." Thomas encouraged and the decision was made.

"Thank you Father!" the boy exclaimed darting from the room. Thomas watched him go with a chuckle.

"How disappointed he will be when he discovers that it is just your dirty clothes." Elizabeth said. Thomas turned to her smiling. He was dusty and weary from the road, the beginnings of a beard clinging to his square jaw, yet he could not have been more handsome. Raven curls tussled, smile wide, eyes dark and lusty. Elizabeth took a step closer, looking up to accommodate the difference between her petite stature and his seemingly immense height.

"You spoil him Thomas; he does not need a gift every time you return from travel." She scolded playfully. He took a step closer, placing his large hands on either side of her tiny waist and drawing her close to him. He lowered his head, bringing his thin lips just a breath away from her full ones.

"Would you still object if I said that I brought you a gift as well?" He kissed her.

"Oh Thomas."


	79. Right

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: None – Henry VIII, Thomas Cromwell and family (mentions)

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Prompt #78: Right

He betrayed you badly, didn't he? He saddled you with that horse of a woman; he pushed his own agenda upon you, played on your trust, greedily built himself up while undermining your true church with his heresy. He got what he deserved, his actions inexcusable. Your verdict justified, decision sound. And yet…

Nothing gets done, your council is lazy, and paper work piles up with no end in sight. Decisions are difficult and no longer carried out, the details are never the same. You watch as his once vivacious bride withers, her eyes die. She has become a gaunt specter wondering in the blackest of mourning garb, looking as if she is dead as well.

His only living son, your former brother-in-law, raises his children without a grandfather. The smart young man just a shell like his mother.

His head, still on Bridge's pike, faces away from the city as despair and gloom settles.

Yet the King is always right.


	80. Roll

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #79: Roll

The sight of his home stable was enough to make Thomas Cromwell weep with joy. Home after months of hard travel and work he was back in Putney, back with his family, his own bed. How he had missed the little things in his life. Wearily he dismounted and began to collect his belongings leaving his horse to the stable boy. Shouldering his bag Thomas turned to walk up to his home.

Fair hands shot out from a secret corner of an empty stall and drug him into a passionate kiss. Instantly Thomas recognized the mouth on his and allowed his suitcase to fall to the ground with a thump. His hands now free they roamed and worshiped the supple warm body he'd missed every long, cold night.

"Elizabeth," he groaned as her wondrous mouth nipped hot at his stubbled jaw.

"You're home." She sighed into another deep kiss, her fingers quickly undoing his overcoat and shirt, slipping in to splay over his lean chest. His fingers fumbled with her décolletage, he'd gone too long without her touch to think clearly and untie her corset. She moaned contentedly at the contrast of h rough hands on her smooth breasts and her hands slid lower on his abdomen.

"Not quite my dear." He teased, his teeth nipping down her neck to her chest. "Should we not continue *in* the house?" his lips found her pebbled nipple. Her ivory fingers tugged at his raven curls as they tunneled through his thick locks.

"Sixteen weeks Thomas! I've hake matters into my own hand for damn near four months. I swear to God, if you don't take me _right now_ I will combust." Thomas switched his attention to her other breast and laughed. Huskily he whispered against her skin.

"I don't want you to cum-bust Love." She arched to him, rubbing her pelvis against his bulging groin.

"Just fuck me Thomas. Now. Please!" A deep, rumbling laugh came from his chest at his wife's impatience and way with words, but Thomas could not deny her. Elizabeth flung his long coat onto a pile of hay and with ease he picked her up and lowered her onto the clean bedding. Elizabeth's sky blue eyes rolled back into her head and her nails raked down his bare back as he impaled her with one deep thrust.

"Oh God I've missed you." She moaned, her legs tightening around his hips, bringing him closer to her. "Oh God! Oh God!" He missed her as well for in a rather embarrassingly short period of time Thomas rolled off his bride utterly spent.

"Call me Thomas." He said breathlessly, a very satisfied smile splitting his face. He looked over at his wife, her chest heaving with a post – orgasm flush to her pale flesh.

"If…I… could move… I'd… I'd knock that smile… right off your… smug face." Thomas laughed out loud and with his strength returned turned over to embrace Elizabeth. She smiled broadly at him.

"I'm so glad to be home." From the other side of the stable wall a horse whinnied.

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_AN: Roll, Roll, Roll in ze hay! Nine months later Gregory _Philip_ was born. When asked if the name had any special significance Elizabeth and Thomas could but smile. Philip is Greek for Friend or Lover of Horses._


	81. Sanguine

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Philip of Bavaria/ Princess Mary Tudor

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Prompt #80: Sanguine

For the fifth time that evening Philip felt as if someone was watching him. It was a warm feeling, like the caress of a hand on his cheek. He would turn from his book to see who was looking at him and the gaze would fly away. Mary sat in a deep chair across from him by the fireplace but her attention seemed to be devoted to a very worn looking leather bound book, he wished that it was her attention that he drew, but he knew that he was only imagining things.

"Mary," he asked after the seventh time he felt the gentle caress of someone's gaze, "How do you like your book?" She looked up, startled, beautiful eyes wide and bashful.

"Very well…thank you. How do you like yours?" hastily she closed the worn leather cover, something he couldn't quite make out sticking up, marking her page.

"My Lady…" Before Philip could answer Mary was whisked away by her ladies in waiting, her father, the King, wanting her for something that could not wait. For a moment Philip contented himself with his book, no longer feeling as though he was being watched. But without Mary's presence he felt… restless. Impatient for her return, he could not sit still and wait. Carefully he marked his page and stood, pacing about.

He'd not intended to invade her privacy, to read over her shoulder as it were. The book bore a pecular crest, a K and an R with a pomegranate embossed on the leather. It was a soft looking book, old and…. It didn't appear to be a novel, the way it bowed over what she used to make her place. Curious Philip reached out and opened the book, a soft red pencil falling out from between the pages. He looked at the pencil, then flipped to the front of the book.

Art. Faces. Drawings. From the pages a young King Henry gazed out, a little girl played. The famous Sir Thomas More – or someone else who favored a strange black hat sat and read. Mary had once told him of how much her mother loved to draw. Katherine Regina, in his hands he held her world. Every picture was of something – someone she loved. It came through with every stroke of the sanguine pencil immortalized on soft, yellowing paper. Philip closed the book momentarily, feeling as if he was intruding on Mary – on Katherine's most intimate existence. He wanted to be a part of her world, but on her terms. He wanted her to show him.

After a beat his curiosity got the better of him and he turned to the final page, the page Mary had marked with a pencil. This would be her art, her beloved mother no longer filling the pages, but her daughter taking up the tools after her.

whim. Very carefully he replaced the pencil in the book, a smile splitting his face. He returned to his chair and opened his book.

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_AN: One, in case it wasn't clear, I didn't want to spell it out in the text too much, but Katherine…. And Mary draw what – who they love. So Mary drawing Philip is as good as a verbal 'I love you'. Also, this is the same notebook that Katherine's art from 'Idol' is in, but Philip rightly closed the book before he found it. ;)_


	82. Sexuality

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas Cromwell/ Elizabeth Wyckes Cromwell

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Prompt #81: Sexuality

Elizabeth Cromwell knew she lived in unique circumstances. Things which she took for granted others never dreamed of and what she found strange was common place elsewhere. One thing Beth Cromwell couldn't get used to was the maids. She'd never had a maid before, in fact for the majority of her life she'd been the maid. Elizabeth made the bed herself, she mended her own clothing and put her own dishes away. She even had Thomas trained to do chores, much to the shock of their household at court. Elizabeth didn't need maids, but the girls needed jobs and at court it was sacrilege not to employ as many ladies as possible in one's household. So Elizabeth compromised, the maids remained so long as they remained out of her way.

Beth was changing her sheets when she noticed something that made her blood run cold.

"Miranda, what happened to your face?" Elizabeth asked quietly, leaving the chore half done. Miranda, one of her maids, looked away quickly flushing the same shade of vivid ginger as her hair.

"Nothing milady." She said meekly. Elizabeth did not buy it.

"Look at me Miranda." She said firmly. The girl did as she was told and weakly raised her blackened eye to her mistress. Elizabeth felt her insides clench. Beth was form Putney, lower class at best. She had seen a beating or two in her time, she knew what the marks looked like, she knew how people tried to hide their shame.

"Miranda, who did this to you?" This girl had not walked into a door or slipped and fell or any of the other lies a victim used. Her lip was split and the bruise around her eye and cheek had a ring mark in it. The maid's eyes watered, her lips trembled.

"I…I am very clumsy, Madam, and I tripped and fell." She said weakly.

"Do not lie to me, I do not like it. You did not fall, did you?" Elizabeth rounded the bed with purpose and stood toe to toe with her lady. She looked her in the eye, determined blue gaze meeting a fearful hazel. "Please," she said softly, "Tell me what happened."

"Thomas!" Elizabeth exclaimed bursting into her husband's office with a force that rattled the door on its hinges. Behind her scurried one of the pages, telling her once again that Mister Secretary Cromwell was not to be disturbed. Cromwell raised his head from his papers, looking at his wife a surprised by her fury. Her chest was heaving and her eyes were spitting blue furry, she was positively trembling with rage.

"Caleb, wine." Cromwell firmly told the page, sending him running once again. Thomas rounded his large, cluttered desk and joined his wife in the middle of the floor, hesitantly touching her shoulder, unsure if she'd rip his arm off and beat him with it. He could count on one hand the times he'd seen his passionate wife so livid.

"Elizabeth?" he asked cautiously.

"Thomas, someone has _raped_ Lady Miranda. I need to bring charges against that _bastard_ Richard Thelonious." Her words were icy, each syllable a struggle for control. Thomas was momentarily taken aback. First by her words and then by their meaning.

"Our Miranda?" he asked, and then, "The Earl of Clackmannanshire?"

"Yes!" Elizabeth exclaimed pacing. Caleb appeared with a glass of wine but Elizabeth waved it off, she refused the seat Thomas offered her and all other attempts to get her to calm down.

"Miranda and I were making the bed when I noticed her face, Thomas, you should see her – a black eye, split lip, he left a ring mark on her cheekbone! And the bruises elsewhere on her body! She looks as if she has been worked over by a beast. I asked her what had happened and she tried to tell me she fell! Fell! The girl was absolutely terrified to speak to me; I had to drag the answer out of her. I've seen abused women before, she cannot lie to me. Thomas, we have to do something!"

Cromwell pinched the bridge of his nose and swore under his breath.

"Does Miranda claim rape? Will she press charges?" Beth turned on her heel violently and threw her hands in the air.

"Have you not been listening to me? She is so afraid she cannot even say the word! But he must be prosecuted!" Thomas took the wine for himself and drained a large amount of it in a single gulp. Beth was not going to be happy with him.

"Unless she formally presses charges against the Earl, my hands are tied. We cannot do anything."

"WHAT!" She roared, Thomas winced.

"Unless she herself presses charges the law is clear. There is nothing we can do."

"Fine!" Elizabeth said stomping past him to the door. "If you won't do anything I'll just kill him myself." There was a look in her eye that told Thomas she was not joking. Swiftly Thomas swept her up over his shoulder and carried her to the large chair behind his desk. He dropped her into its depths and then braced his hands on the arms, caging her in lest she try to escape. Elizabeth looked up at him angrily.

"Sexuality, in case you have forgotten, Thomas, is a gift. Only to be _given_ willingly by a woman to a partner whom she chooses, one who respects her, one she is safe with. Do you have any idea what that bastard has done to her – to her self-esteem to her position at court, she will never be married! He's taken everything from her and you won't do anything? Thomas – she is not but a year older than what Alexandria would be had she lived! She could be ours, this could be our daughter – and she is hurting! There-"

"ENOUGH!" Thomas roared, silencing Elizabeth in a way he'd never spoken to her before. "I get it Elizabeth, Thelonious is the devil himself and deserves to be flogged in public before sent to hell. It is not that I do not feel for Miranda – I know damn well what the implications of sexual assault are. I personally wrote the legislation. I know the loopholes and the juries. And I know that my hands are tied! Unless Miranda comes forward and produces proof the Earl and his favor at Court will destroy any case we try to present and that can be _worse_ for justice and for Miranda. If it were Alexandria in trouble I would at least have rights as her father and Thelonious would be burning in hell as we speak but I. Cannot. Do. Anything. You. Cannot. Do. Anything. Except try to get Miranda to push for a trial. If she does not I am ashamed to say the law cannot touch the matter." Elizabeth looked up at him, eyes wide. In all her years by his side she'd never seen him so angry. It was almost frightening, as if another man had taken over her husband.

All the tension that Thomas felt that had made him snap so violently had dissolved with his angry words, feeling lightheaded and weak he collapsed a little against the chair. He hung his head and took a deep breath, suddenly sick. He'd sounded so much like his father in that outburst he was ill, it was not his words but his tone – the anger there. Two cool hands caressed his cheeks and raised his eyes to hers. The fear he'd seen flash in her azul gaze was long gone, replaced with warm love and affection. She drew him down and kissed his brow.

"I'm sorry." He said weakly, "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." He said it over and over again, tears welling. She kissed his forehead again and hugged him tightly.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. "I should not have implied that you do not care. I should not have mentioned Alexandria. I know you will do all that you can. I trust you. I love you. I know you well do all that you can. You're the best man I know, Thomas, don't you forget that." He gave her a small smile and hugged her back.

"What would I do without you, Elizabeth?"

"Well, you might have to find out, if I get anywhere near that bastard I might not be able to restrain myself."

"Elizabeth, you may not kill the Earl… that's… that's a lot of paperwork for me to do." For the first time since Elizabeth saw Miranda's bruised body that morning she smiled.

"Do I have to be civil?" He smiled back at her.

"Not at all, you just may not throw any punches. Try not to get into too much trouble."

"Do I ever?" She patted his cheek and he stood, offering her his hand. She stood as well and headed for his door. "I will see you tonight, love." Once she left Thomas called for his servant, draining the rest of the wine while he waited.

"Caleb, keep an eye on my wife, make sure she doesn't start any fights."

It was three weeks after Miranda's incident the girl had been treated by Dr. Linacre and was not pregnant, much to everyone's relief. She was still afraid to leave the Cromwell chambers but between Elizabeth and Thomas she was being well provided for. Three weeks had not quashed Elizabeth's anger however. She had not sought out the Earl as Thomas had feared she might but when the opportunity presented itself she did not shy away from confrontation. The meeting came in the form of a dance. The Earl had oozed his way up to Elizabeth and asked for her hand, the look she shot Thomas as she accepted made him wish to renege on his policy of never disallowing her to do anything. He could only sit back and hold his breath as confirmed rapist led his wife out on to the dance floor.

"I believe some conversation is required Madam Cromwell." Lord Richard began; he had a silky voice and a long, pale tongue. Elizabeth's eyes flashed at him in a way only a fool could mistake as anything other than disdain. The Earl was, among many things, a fool. He gave her a thin-lipped smile.

"Of course, My Lord," she said lightly, "I actually have a question for you."

"What can _satisfy_ my Lady's inquiring mind?" he purred, spinning her around in time to the music. When she stopped, standing toe to toe to him she looked up into his black eyes.

"How many?" She asked in a low voice.

"Excuse me?"

"I know what you did. I know how impotent you are – how the violence is the only way you get off. How many other girls have you forced yourself upon?" His eyes flashed at her.

"You don't know what you are talking about, Madam. I suggest you watch your tongue."

"I suggest you stay away from my Ladies and you stay away from my husband, and you stay away from me else the entire court will know of your sexual deviance and moral failings." His hand tightened painfully on hers.

"Are you threatening me? Do you know who I am? You stupid little country cunt – you don't know with whom you are dealing." With years of self-defense taught to her by her old brother Elizabeth broke his grasp on her hand and turned it around on him so that she might hold his wrist at a dangerous angle. She stood very close and hissed,

"Oh, I do indeed, as a country cunt I've spent my life around pigs like you."


	83. Sloth

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Katherine of Aragon

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Prompt #82: Sloth

"Thomas, come back to bed." She said sleepily. Sir Thomas More turned from the window and the view of the sun rising over the rolling hills to the bed.

"It is dawn; there is much I need to do." He said, gap in the curtains further illuminating the room.

"It is Saturday, Thomas, the only thing you need to be doing is relaxing. You work too hard, my love, I worry for your health."

More looked out the window, the court beginning to start her morning, and then to bed again, where Katherine was propped on her arm, hair curling about her seminude body. The sunlight glowed in her light eyes and destroyed any resolve that he had. Thomas closed the blinds and crossed back to their bed. Work – and the world – could wait.

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_AN: This was written to take my mind off of my final project in which I am required to read 2000 tweets about Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann. My brain is melted. I hate finals. The first version of Katherine's line was "It is Saturday, Thomas, the only thing you need to be doing is me." But then I realized that More would be sleeping with Elizabeth instead of Katherine and Cromwell would kill him. Lol. God, someone please help me, twitter has finally made me crack!_


	84. Supine

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Some William Parr/ Alexandria Knightly  
_Note: Mirabile Dictu is the supine meaning "Amazing to say!" Supine is an archaic tense of Latin._

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Prompt #83: Supine - Mirabile dictū

"Do you want to hold one?" Edward asked deliberately ignoring Will. He acknowledged the boy's presence in Dria's life but he'd be damned if he acknowledged him anywhere else. Alexandria looked from the small boy swaddled in his arms to Edward's face.

"Really?" she whispered, her eyes glowing with joy. Her cousin chuckled a little.

"No, I am dangling my son," His voice sounded so warm, "in front of you just to be mean. I'm not that cruel, Dria, no matter what the gossips say."

Nine months ago she would not have called him cruel but she would have questioned the marriage the twins would be born into. Those qualms were no more. She'd always known Edward loved Anne and now Anne knew it too. And Anne loved him. James and Anthony were lucky to have such parents.

Dria held out her arms to receive the babe, his green blanket telling her it was James. Carefully, supporting his neck and tiny weight, Edward placed the child in his cousin's waiting arms; she tucked the boy to her body and beamed at the father.

"He's a handsome boy, Edward." She said cooing at the child.

Will, careful not to touch Dria in Edward's presence, peered over her shoulder, and into the face of Wee James Seymour. The baby had Edward's dark eyes and Anne's even darker hair. Dria beamed at her infant cousin and then looked up at Will, joy in her eyes. It illuminated her face and took his breath away.

She was gorgeous.

He wanted a child. Miracle to say! But he wanted a baby. Not just any baby but a child with Alexandria. A little person half him and half her. Her eyes, his smile, their love in the flesh. She would be a wonderful mother.

One Day.

One day Edward would be asking to hold _their _child. One day he would be the elated father – the way Edward Seymour was now.

One day he might be comfortable in his role as head of the family, finally find his spot as a man at court.

He and Dria would be married – One day – in a large church wedding, her in white, flowers in her hair, Edward walking her down the aisle, looking unhappily at him – but knowing that he would take his vows seriously. Edward would not like him but know that William would never harm Alexandria, never make her cry. He would know how much Will loved his cousin and respect him for it, even if they would never be friends.

They'd have chambers at court and a house. They would lie together in a bed without the breath of sin hanging over them. Never would another scandal rock them.

He would have an office. The thought didn't make him happy, but every man at court had an office. And as strange as it seemed he could see himself sitting at a desk, pushing papers about until she would come in and take his mind off of business.

She'd burst in, lovely as ever in one of her blue dresses and whisper in his ear the good news. He'd drop his pen and pick her up in his arms and just spin her. Carefully he'd press his hand to her belly.

In the months to come they would stand very much as they did when she told him the news, his hand on her stomach, it growing and growing and growing as their child formed. It expanding, filling his hand. He would feel it kick; they would talk to the babe inside of her.

One day, one day he wanted a family. But today, today he would be satisfied with watching Dria hold her cousin.


	85. Tamed

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Francis Bryan/ Katherine Parr  
_AN: AU, in modern times. Remember how I mentioned a plot earlier about the Tudors Crew being Professors? Yeah, this is taken from that. Kate Parr is a Professor on the rebound after her messy break up with Tommy Seymour; Francis Bryan is the bass player for The Vicars of Hell, a Celtic-y punk rock band. They are both convinced they are just having fling with the other, completely ignoring the fact they are totally in a committed, healthy, semi-normal relationship._

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Prompt #84: Tamed

Kate made him go to the shops. Forced him. First catching a cold and then deciding that what she really wanted was the stomach flu. Now she was too weak to lift herself off the bathroom floor – unless it was to wrench one of her intestines up into the toilet. It was a plot. He was sure of it. Just to put him out. Because now he was at Tesco - she needed something to make her sleep and not sound like a freight train and Nathanial was going through nappies like water.

The sooner that child was housebroken, the better.

He involuntarily ground his back teeth. The man reflected back at him in the store window was… soft. Thoroughly domesticated. No more leather clad sex symbol. No more hard rock God. No, the man looking back at him had stubble – not the sexy kind but the 'I – don't -have – enough – time – to – shit – and – shave – before – my – son – needs – me – again' kind. He wasn't even wearing his own shirt! He'd stumble around; sleep deprived, and managed to pull on one of Kate's tees from uni.

Once upon a time he was only up at this time because he'd not gone to bed the night before. Once upon a time he smelled like cigarettes and whisky. Now he smelled like whatever fruity ass soap Kate had in the shower and baby vom. He wondered how many girls would through their knickers at him now.

He loaded Nate in his carrier into the trolley and reluctantly found the baby aisle. It was, as he dreaded, populated with a combination of toothless men and women cooing to them. Cooing at him. He was certain the entire aisle turned and looked at him and then in unison went 'aw' because he was a man with a baby. Christ.

He wasn't her damned boyfriend. He sure as hell wasn't her husband. He was a rock star. He was a sex God! He wanted to remind her of this, leave the bloody nappies and club soda. Throw the saltines across the room. Go home and burry himself in her and remind her that he was virile. He wasn't a manny or a house boy he was the Black Fucking Pope. He was the vicar of Hell. He was shaking a stuffed animal and humming to his infant son in hopes that his urge to cry could be pacified.

And there was a six week moratorium on sex. He was going mad. And oh, by the way, he'd only survived two and a half weeks. He was sick of sleeping in her guest room and he couldn't share a bed with her without wanting. Scratching his own itch was just disdainful now he'd spent a year in her bed.

"Francis?" A female voice asked, quite unsure. He turned. Tall. Thin. Unnaturally blonde. Didn't really narrow it down much.

Once upon a time women like her screamed his name every night, although the lighting was always lower. Either because he was on stage of a smoky venue or back at her place after the show. He searched his mind for a way to tell her apart from all the other groupies, but they had all blurred together. They'd all been forgotten, or nearly forgotten, he realized with a jolt. After meeting Kate, slowly but surely every other woman in his life had all but disappeared. There was Kate and only Kate.

The woman, the easy, meaningless lay of yesteryear then colored. She'd noticed Nate, who was gurgling with quiet focus as his eyes – Kate's eyes – observed the world around him.

"I'm so sorry; I had you mistaken for someone else." She said and rushed away, flustered. Francis watched her beat a hasty retreat. He looked down at Kate's tee shirt, then at his son, realization dawning on him as if he was drowning in molasses. He had been domesticated. Like a cat. Francis hung his head and sighed. Nate looked at him; Christ, that kid had gotten Kate's expressions too. This one was a hard study.

"Come on squirt, let's go make sure your Mum hasn't drown in the toilet." He said dryly, pushing the cart to the shortest queue with all the other tamed beasts.


	86. Twins

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Edward Seymour/ Anne Stanhope Seymour

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Prompt #85: Twins

Edward paced. It was amazing there wasn't a rut in the floor where he walked; he'd been traveling back and forth over the same line for at least ten hours. Broken only momentarily by short periods of sitting, usually after Alexandria yelled at him that he was making her dizzy. Inside the bedroom Anne screamed and Edward looked up to heaven for strength. She was in labor – six weeks early in labor.

Catherine, his first wife, had given birth twice to two boys (they were either his sons or his brothers). She never went through pregnancy like this. The entire time Anne was pregnant she was in hell. She was pale and sore, susceptible to fainting, bruising and bouts of tears that absolutely terrified him. And now ten hours into labor it still sounded as if she were going to die. The midwives wouldn't allow him in the room, despite his pleas and Anne's demands. He'd gotten half way in once only to be tossed out again. And so he paced. Wincing at every cry, a prayer on his lips. _O Lord please let her live._

Edward had lost one of his sisters to the birthing bed. Sweet Jane got to hold her child but once before she was taken from them. He'd lost his sister, his friend, and his Queen that day. It had broken his heart, but he was able to endure there would be nothing left of him should he loose Anne. His heart, his soul, his mind all would be lost. From the other side of the door Anne howled, the doctor was shouting, there was a flourish of activity that signaled the arrival of his child.

The door flew open and a midwife appeared. Edward crossed to her in three strides.

"How is she?" He asked, "The baby, has she had the child?" He was frantic to know, desperate to see his Anne and their child. The midwife looked up at him seriously.

"Please, Sir Edward, not now. I must go… we were not prepared…" She forced past him as the doctor called for her to hurry, Anne wailing again.

Alexandria must have led him to a chair because for the life of him he had no idea how he came to be there. He knew nothing other than _something had gone wrong._ It was what they had said when Jane had taken her turn for the worse. They'd told him it was an unforeseen complication… that they were unprepared… he… she…

Anne was going to die.

For a long time he sat in complete and utter shock, absolutely numb. Dria's hand on his shoulder didn't even phase him until she began shaking it violently, calling his name.

"EDWARD!" She exclaimed, "Edward, you need to go see her." Dria said. He looked up at his cousin,

"She's going to-"

"Don't you dare say it Edward Seymour," Alexandria snapped. "Anne is stronger than Jane, as much as I loved my cousin, Anne is stronger. She will be fine. Now stand up the Doctor will let you see her."

Edward entered the room cautiously, looking at the chaos around him before turning his eye to the bed. Anne lay back against as stack of pillows looking rumpled, red, and exhausted, not one but two bundles in her arms.

He blinked.

"Congratulations Sir Edward!" The doctor said heartily. "Mother and children are well. I apologize for not recognizing her condition sooner. All of the symptoms pointed to it, but it's not at all common, one never thinks of it." Edward didn't even look at the old man. His navy gaze was fixed on Anne, two dark haired babies in her arms. Twins.

She wasn't dying… she was having twins. He strode to the bed quickly and pulled his wife – and their children - into his arms, his face burying itself in her hair, hiding the tears of sheer joy that threatened to fall.

"You're alive." He whispered. She pulled back and smiled softly at him.

"Of course." Her hand cupped his cheek and thumb brushed away the joyful fat tears that rolled down his cheeks. "Of course, Edward. I am alive and well." She said firmly looking into his eyes, letting him see that while it was an exhausted sparkle, her eyes glittered nonetheless.

"I love you." He whispered, voice cracking, both with the power of the emotion that he felt and the weight of never had told his wife such important words while she was awake. Her smile was broad and true and a soft rose colored her cheeks.

"And I, you." She said warmly before kissing him softly. "Now, say hello to your sons." Her gaze turned to the two small bundles tucked to her chest and for the first time. Two beautiful faces gazed up at him with the most handsome features he'd ever seen. His voice trembled once again.

"H-hello boys." He licked his lips, unsure of what else to say. "I'm – I am so happy to meet you. I-I am your Father."


	87. Ughten

Oddments Reprise

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Disclaimer: I am not a Theologian, a Historian, or a TV Producer; I therefore do not own any thing.  
Pairing: Thomas More/ Surprise!  
_Author's Note: Ughten is another word for Morning's twilight. #themoreyouknow_

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Prompt #86: Ughten

Morning's twilight filtered into the room, bathing the bed and blankets in a cool periwinkle light. It was a soft light and carried with it the soft sounds of the first Sparrows and Starlings waking for the new day. The early morning was the stillest part of the day. By the time the first fingers of light began peeling back the shadows of night even the most ruckus of courtier was passed out under a table or in another's bed somewhere unremembered. The twilight came before the cock's call and thus even the earliest of risers were still slumbering peacefully. It was in this periwinkle light, the ughten that Thomas More crept back to his chambers.

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He was not royalty, or even of distinctive birth, and in the eyes of his church they were not married they could never be married – not to each other. Not while they both technically had spouses. Lying together was wrong. Embracing the whole night until the first light was wrong. Loving was wrong. He'd often told his children that if you had to hide what you were doing, if you had to sneak about to do it it was probably wrong. And here he was creeping through shadows and corridors, hoping no one had called on his empty chamber in the night. It was wrong.

But someday it would be right. He would see to it. Someday he wouldn't have to sneak. Someday they wouldn't have to hide. Someday the love that felt so right in his heart and in his soul would be seen as right to the rest of the world. But that day was in the future, it was not the day that was dawning around him now. And so with that Thomas closed the door softly behind him and hurried as fast as he could away from the King's Bedchamber.

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_Author's Note II: Yes. I just went there._


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